The Lone Winter

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THE LONE WINTER

By ANNE BOSWORTH GREENE

PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK AND LONDON 1923

Copyright, 1923, by
The Century Co.

TO MY

Father and Mother
this BOOK

IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

THE LONE WINTER

THE LONE WINTER

October 5.

The farm seems so still. Not a voice — nor a laugh —
anywhere. Occasionally there comes a roar from Kim, the
pony stallion, staked in the mowing, or Goliath noisily
scratches his ear, banging his hock on the porch floor;
but for the most part there is just a whisper of leaves,
murmur of wind in the woods, the pipe of a lone bird
. . . and silence. For I am alone. Dolly and the yellow
cart have just brought me home from the station. My
child has gone to her school in town, and I am to stay
and take care of things here. . . . Not a nice plan at all !
But there seems no way, this winter, for us both to
leave the farm and its precious creatures; and education
must go on. . . .

And if I can’t have my Babs I don’t want anybody.
I want to write. I should be swamped in the enormous-
ness of having some one else around — of being respon-
sible, on this lone mountain side, for some one’s social
well-being. . . . Besides, I want the fun of seeing if I
can’t do everything on the place myself. Everything!
Not split it up even with a chore boy. That would be
frightfully dull ! Doing it oneself may be rather
sport. . . .

For our crops are all in; there will only be the herd
of Shfitlands and the horses and Cressy-cow, to look after.

[ 3 ]

1 JL U JN JU W 1 JN T E Jti

Is it so very difficult, the daily dealing out of hay? Dur-
ing the war winter Babs and I did it together. . . . Being
alone will be very different, of course. The idea frightens
me a little. But I shall have Goliath and Boo-boo, and
every spare moment I shall write. I have promised to
keep this journal, too — and I shall try. Journals are a
joke in our family. Every year we buy beautiful ones —
and don’t keep ther$ !

To-morrow there will be a letter from my child, and I
shall know that she, at least, is having what she ought to
have. That is what upholds one — what really matters.
. . . One feels oneself taking a sort of moral long
breath! . . .

* * *

October 6.

It ’s very funny, but in the way of things to be done
I chiefly dread milking that cow ! It is my worst bugaboo.
At present she is farmed out with a neighbor, and as
long as pasture-time is here, and free milk is any induce-
ment, I mean to keep her there. It is now three years
since I have milked anything — since our winter here with
the beasts and the drifts (and they were drifts) ; but
how well I remember that ache in the back of the unac-
customed hand, — I was a dilettante at milking — a search-
ing, piercing pain, which climbs to one’s shoulder and
holds on. . . .

The care of the ponies will be simple. There won’t be
very many of them — only sixteen or so. We have be-
tween thirty and forty in all (we ’re egregiously proud
of that herd!), but nearly half of them will be out on
farms for the winter, in families where children need

[ 4 ]

THE LONE WINTER

ponies to get them to school. ... As for the beloved
saddle-horses, and Dolly, that we drive, they will be half
one’s company. They and the ponies are in pasture now;
though I found three rascals of Shetlands out in the
mowing the day I drove home from the station. By
the looks of the garden, they had been in there, too,
the imps ! I must find their hole in the fence and mend
it swiftly. It ’s an old brush fence, in sections, a very
uncertain sort. And ponies know just how to deal with
it. . . . When snow comes the yard and pony sheds will
be their home for the winter; although Elizabeth R.,
our darling, fuzzy baby colt, will be in the cow barn,
where it is very warm, with the yearlings and a brood-
mare or two.

I wonder if it is going to be a particularly awful winter?
Last year everybody up here in the mountains was in
ten-foot drifts, and it was below zero for weeks. I do
hope it won’t be quite like that, for then water-pipes freeze
in our dear old farm-house and things get rather elabo-
rate. . . . One winces a bit at the thought of winter!
But I love it when it comes. No neighbors are very near;
I see only one little smoke, half a mile down valley; but
in this beautiful solitude there are only woods and moun-
tains, friendly brooks. ... I shall ride my Polly — she 's
slim, keen Kentucky, with a brain!— and drive Dolly to
the village for supplies. One person will eat so absurdly
little that it will be nothing to keep supplied. I wish I
could freeze a quarter of beef, like my neighbors, and
have it on hand ; but fancy making one’s lone way through
all that! Besides, I don’t know how to cut up quarters
of things — stiff, gory things; I don’t think I should like
to if I knew. . . .

[ 5 ]

THE LONE WINTER

As I rode up our hill on Polly yesterday, I thought that,
if one is going to be alone anywhere, this is a pretty gor-
geous place to be alone in. Woods and winds and moun-
tains make up for a lot. Our little gray farm-house (it ’s
more than a hundred years old, and a darling) sits at the
head of its valley surrounded by orchards. In the rear
there *s a high mountain pasture; wooded arms stretch
out on both sides. Across our front valley is a blue moun-
tain — a very special mountain ; in the depths of the valley
wanders a brook. That brook is tiny, but so nice. It is
blue, often ; or it glints whitely up at you. Always it is a
charming pattern. And it comes from our own spring;
we help nourish its fishes.

Then we have half a mile of our own road — a twisting,
woody road ; and only far below does the occasional motor
that has invaded these hills flash by. We think we are
safe. Motors ran us off Cape Cod; they came and
hiccuped under our noses — but we mean to “set” here!
For we love horses. My Polly is my messenger, my
winged conveyance. . . .

* * *

October 9.

Wonderful weather — no rain, and glowing sunshine.
Everything is very sweet. And yet one feels somehow
immeasurably alone. I am sure Boo-boo feels it, too.
He comes in much oftener than is his wont in fine
weather; “Pr-oo?” he inquires, looking wistfully up at
me, and climbs into my lap, curling himself round with
cozy cat-finality. And upon a Missis who is always bob-
bing up about something! Life, for a little stub-tailed
pussy, is full of trials just now. . . . Riding-trousers!

[ 6 ]

THE LONE WINTER

kind mornings, I inform bald Pisgah reproachfully, glory
stayed about until one’s hair was done and one could
rush out into the freshness and the glow and seize a
pitchfork and breathe it all in ; and here the extinguishing
had happened while I was buttoning my blouse !

Later, the sun came grudgingly out of his cloud; but
it was a whole hour before Ascutney had his blue again.
This was impressive, because in all our years here I had
never seen the reliable old thing (we call him our barom-
eter) behave so. Except at a cold twilight, he always
looks nice, and then it’s a gray you expect. Night is
coming on ; and the dear can’t help it. Under moonlight,
even, — instead of being half invisible, — he is an ineffable
tint (the sort that Willard Metcalfe can do, best of all) ;
and if anything could wash him out it would be a moon.
The moon does such awful things to harbors ; everything
vanishes in a sort of gray dance, and you can’t pick up
your moorings if you try. . . .

This very moment I glanced out to see how Ascutney
was. Blue as the sea, and an edge sharp enough to cut
with!

* * *

January 7.

My Babs has gone. Two whole weeks of luxury and
laughter ; how strange our hilltop seems ! The gleam has
vanished; a vivid dulness settled down. . . .Even the
barns seem vacant. But the animals have been uncom-
monly nice. Goliath follows me everywhere. Boo-boo
was early at his window, and quite frantic with cordial-
ity. He even escorted me to Kim’s yard and helped give
him a drink of water— and Boo does n’t care for water-

17 ]

THE LONE WINTER

when walking, perhaps, sploshily, across one’s winter
barn-yard. There it is! A star, above the snow-laden
barn roofs; a purple apple-tree leaning over the drifted
white of the pasture lane ; or a line of many-colored ponies
munching, against dusky sheds, at their long green wind-
row of hay. ... I am fearfully indebted, too, to my
lantern, especially when its chimney is nice and smoky,
as it usually is. Perhaps I hang it inside the pony shed
and go back, as I am always going back, for more hay :
behold, across the graying yard a golden doorway set
upon the dusk, and a high square of romantic window,
dimly orange. A most suggestive window. One expects
a Roxane , at least, to lean out of it ; and a sound of plain-
tive lutes approaching. If I leave the lantern inside
the barn, and navigate the yard a la belle etoile , there
are scary, illuminated cracks as I return. . . . There is
something fearfully fascinating about a lighted crack.
One always wants to peer into it. I do sometimes, well
as I know my venerable barn. It looks as if there must
be Somebody — in there! . . . Then if I set the same
benevolent smoky escort on the snow outside the barn’s
fagade, behold instantly a glamourous effect of footlights
— and Drama, somewhere, about to begin. The old gray
boards, vanishing upward into dusk, are dimly golden.
The snow is bright with gold. And the mere look of
the lonely pathway, leading spookily away into darkness,
sends shivers of "anticipation down one’s spine. . . .

But the lantern sits calmly by, melting a circle in the
snow. I pick it up and go bobbing prosaically along to
the house; yet the vision has been — the poetry is stored
away inside one ; and I set the milk-pail on the sink, and
take off my barn boots, with a sense of richness ineffable.

[ 8 ]

THE LONE WINTER

should be thus deserting the spot where Missis should
have dismounted and got noisily busy. . . . But the woods
were lovely. Sunlight sifted, in great gold wafts, through
the golden trees; dry leaves rustled; Polly loves to hop
over logs and stumps, and we found plenty — finally ar-
riving at the coveted wire. I leaped off and tried one
end of it. Whoever thought wire was heavy ? Impossible
to lift that bristling roll upon the saddle, as one had
blithely planned ; neither could Polly snag it behind us with
a rope. . . . How would a man manage, anyway? . . .
The woods waved magisterially above my head; a great
silence was about us. For a moment I felt small and
feminine and helpless. ...

At last, unwinding a series of snaky coils, I chopped
off a sufficient piece, which leaped at me like the arm of
an octopus and stuck. I had a desperate time getting its
writhing length unstuck and curled up again. Then, with
one hand leading an alarmed and inconveniently high-
headed horse, with the other I dragged the clustered coils
noisily through the woods. It seemed miles to that hole!
but at last we reached it and I set to, forcing the thorny
stuff in and out, grasping it gingerly but always cutting
my gloves and wrists. Barbs met you everywhere; and
yet the strands must be pulled tight — extra tight, for
ponies ! (I could just imagine them pushing it up, having
a merry back-scratch on barbs, and dashing out with gig-
gles of glee !) So I hooked it round trees and over posts,
back and forth across the fatal gap in the old stone wall
and reinforced it with saplings. There! Surely that
would hold them! . . .

Then I made my way to an expectant horse — awaiting
me with very intent ears. We were in a notch of pasture

[ 9 ]

THE LONE WINTER

thickly set with ferocious blackberry-bushes, so that one’s
entire world seemed just then made of prickles ; but Polly
picked her way distastefully out and galloped off with
me. Noon hour!

After a dash home to give the family its dinners, we
set out to find the wanderers. Polly, inspired by oats,
sped gaily along, while I rose in my stirrups to peer over
hedge-rows, scrutinizing landscape for familiar spots of
color. . . . There they were, sweet dears, asleep under an
old apple-tree in my neighbor’s mowing. Fine ! It would
be'easy to circumvent them. Speaking softly to the collie,
I rode in a wide circle, then bore suddenly down on them
with whoops. Off they went with a flourish of heels, and
along inside the wall we raced, Polly, her head down, and
shoulder-muscles flashing, gaining at every leap ; for Go-
liath was taking care of the rear, and I must get to the
barway before them and swing them toward home. We
dashed through the opening and drew up.

“Drive ’em!” I shouted.

“Boo-hoo-oo-ooooo !” shrilled Goliath, as the pelting
mob thundered up.

“Hi !” I yelled, dancing an agitated Polly back and forth
across the lane. The ponies stopped, hesitated, then swung
down the lane and streamed off, headed at full speed for
home. (Shetlands never do anything by halves! If they
decide to go home they go, lickety-clip ! ) That speed must
be kept up, however, so that Ocean Wave, in the lead as
usual, would be too rattled to meditate on the charms of
a certain branch road, just by our entrance, that led down
to the other valley (we abominate that pretty road!) and
would take for her very life across our mowings and up

[io]

THE LONE WINTER

to 'the barns. Noise being, at such moments, an assistance,
“Hi !” I shouted again, racing after them, after dust, flying
tails, and a many-colored stream of backs — ducking im-
pertinent bushes, dashing into a wooded hollow and up.
Here was the fateful corner. . . . Thank goodness! In
they swung, down across our brook and up the slope to
stand, agitated and panting, in front of the barn-yard gate.

Cantering up, I leaped off and began to soothe. “There,
Ocean ! . . .. So — o, pets ! Whoa, darlings !” meanwhile
stealing round to open the gate, while Goliath, every hair
alert, stood in their rear. “Come, lambs !” In they filed,
pushing each other, scurrying by me to bury their noses
in the cool water of the trough. Something cold touched
my hand ; the collie was looking up at me, laughing into
my face with eloquent golden eyes.

“Good man!” I murmured, hugging him. “Best dog
ever lived! Got them, didn’t we?” And, satisfied, he
trotted down to his pet pool in the brook for a long, long
drink.

Turning Polly into the paddock, I counted the heads still
clustered about the trough — such a pretty cluster! — and
heaved a sigh of relief. Now we would see! . . „ The
afternoon was well along — nearly time to ride for the
mail. . . . Not one word of writing had one been able to
do, since coming home to the farm; but perhaps the ponies
would stay in. . . .

So far they have. And that was yesterday. People
have been coming to see about taking them away for the
winter; the yard has been full of flivvers, and my day
of interruptions — but I shall see some dear time pretty
soon. If only that fence holds!

[«]

THE' LONE WINTER

October io.

I am very proud. No ponies are out yet ! This morning
I saw a delightful frieze of them on the high knoll against
the sky. Blessed angels 1 So nice of them to show me
they are in, for our pasture is immense. Seven other
pastures, I counted one day, border upon it — all with
fences in various and pictorial stages of decay. Mine are
some of the worst. Everybody alternates in taking care
of these boundaries, so, besides the long piece that borders
the inside of things, — our own mowings, — we have seven
other scattered sections to look after, and during our
absence in town these brush fences have become quite
disgraceful. So next spring, when I am here, I have
vowed there shall be Wire, — everywhere, — and no more of
this racing and chasing !

* * *

October u.

I have been to an auction. I went to buy a cook-stove,
and came home with a colt ; I am so much more interested
in colts than in cook-stoves ! . . . And this stove was no
larger than our own. I wanted a regular big old country
affair with a fire-box that would take in a tree-trunk,
hoping then to keep our pipe-splitting kitchen warm at
night. It is a dear kitchen, but it is not warm. Our
pipes are riddled with mends. I am sure there is more
solder in them than iron! Our plumber not only lives
seven miles away but has been so untactful as to take on
a mail route for a steady job. In winter, when he does
his thirty miles with a horse and sleigh over excruciating
hills, it of course takes him all day. Sunday is his only
repair-time. So it behooves us to break pipes on Satur-

[ 12 ]

THE LONE WINTER

days only. Otherwise, we go waterless for a week except
for laborious buckets brought in from the watering-trough
— and those have to be boiled ! I am not keen even about
washing my face in unsifted trough water — though what
could be cleaner, really, than nice, fastidious little Shet-
land noses? . . . The trough is clear as an aquarium —
with aquarium vegetables waving at the bottom ; and every
little while we banish even the vegetables. . . .

This train of consequences simply goes to show why
I wanted a cook-stove, and why on seeing, at eleven-thirty,
a notice of an auction containing one, I grained Polly,
garnered a hasty lunch, and was off for nine miles up
a valley road. Nearly twelve ! And the auction to begin
“sharp at one, rain or shine; plenty of shelter, terms cash!”
(A nice rhythm to that.) Polly was both steady and
gay; she trotted me swiftly along by the brawling stream.
More and more the mountains folded about us, and my
Polly's ears nodded and winked as her feet rang mer-
rily along. She had something on her mind evidently, and
f tweaked me round the corner by a sawmill as if she knew
that the next turning across the brook would get us there
— which it did. (Now, how did she know that ? I did n't !)
r We climbed a short wooded rise out of the valley, and
there was the farm, with its big maples, its mountain view,
— which farms always seem to have, — the teams hitched
in rows along its edges, and a slow crowd circling the
porch. Tying Polly to a picket-fence, I wandered over to
inspect the treasures with which the porch was piled.

A pathetic setting out of a family's household gods!
Nearly everything, except plows and carts and my cook-
stove, was there. China and beds and broken chairs,
funny old pictures, the “set” of green lemonade glasses

[13]

THE LONE WINTER

and pitcher, with raised, white glass flowers adorning
them, that will be found in almost any farm-house, —
a touching epitome of the formalities of rural en-
tertaining ; sauce-pans scarred with ardent scrapings
of the housewife’s spoon ; pillow-cases laboriously trimmed
with knitted lace, cracked pitchers and mirrors; tables,
bedroom sets, and the inevitable row of wooden boxes
filled with unassorted “junk.” Little to attract the con-
noisseur or the antique fiend ; indeed, the crowd was one
of neighbors chiefly, with here or there the shrewd counte-
nance of a cattle-dealer, or the uninteresting, stereotyped
exterior of “city folks” dropped in to pass an idle hour.

This auction was out of my “beat”; I saw only half
a dozen faces I had ever seen before, and gladly met the
smile and outstretched hand of a farmer’s wife, with
whom we had often stopped on our way to the mountains.
She is a wonderful person ; silver-haired, merry, brown-
eyed, with a skin of peaches and cream, and the light step
and figure of two and twenty. Her sense of humor never
fails — nor, strange to say, do her biscuits and apple-pies !
How any one can be so easy-going and yet such a house-
wife, so philosophic and yet so industrious, is one of my
puzzles in life. A gleam of sunshine made efficient! And 1
the brave light in her brown eyes, once seen, is not easily
forgotten. In her farm-house kitchen, with its flower-
filled windows, — one of the pleasantest spots on earth,
scrubbed as fresh as a white rose, and full of oven fra-
grances, she trips about in her flax-blue dresses with a bit
of snowy collar, her hair waving and shining above her
smooth forehead, and talks books or politics with you.
Not gossip. She has a mind like a man’s. And then
one of those perplexing super-pies comes out of the oven ;

[ 14 ]

THE LONE WINTER

and kettlefuls of things are bounding and bubbling on top
of the stove, and everything is made of cream and maple-
sugar and fresh eggs and cheerfulness and humor and
good will, and a peep at her long, dim, cool pantry, whose
window backs up greenly, romantically against the forest
and a great gray cliff, is a glimpse of poetry. . . .

I was surprised to see her at an auction; unlike most
farm wives, she almost never goes, not being dependent
on that form of amusement. . . . But she was going to
buy a barrel-churn, she told me, a stout, brass-bound oak
keg, pleasant to the eye ; and Mrs. X. handled it lovingly.
When the stout, red-faced auctioneer mounted his perch,
staring ably about him, the crowd gathered. The women
stayed mostly on the porch, where their modest bonnets
rocked to and fro in chairs that were to be sold; but
Mrs. X. and I were boldly in the thick of the men-folks.
The men always have the best place at an auction, right
under the fire of the jokes, where they can see the cracks
in the under sides of the articles of crockery-ware which
the auctioneer, if he be canny, clasps fervently to his
bosom! If I am going to bid, too, I like to be in front,
and lift a potent eyebrow at the auctioneer,— a delightfully
lordly feeling ; he assents so instantly to your will ! — And
when my dear Mrs. X. thus got her barrel-churn, with
no competition, for three dollars, we pressed each other’s
hands in rapture. A mahogany mirror-frame fell to me
for thirty cents, having escaped the hawk-like vision of
a city person on the porch, who was bidding excitedly on
beds and tables ; so that the wife of the village minister,
who did long for a table for her husband’s study, was
disappointed in her quest. The city person soared easily
above ministerial figures, but suddenly ceased bidding, I

[ 15 ]

THE LONE WINTER

noticed, on a double boiler for which a young fanner
was bashfully competing.

"I wanted that double boiler dreadfully,” she nobly con-
fided to me afterward, ''but, do you know, it makes one
feel positively guilty to be bidding on useful things, sauce-
pans, you know, that these people want themselves? I
don’t want them to feel about me a& they do about Mrs. Y.
— they say, ‘Oh, if she ’s here, nobody can’t get nothin’.’
And they can’t! She simply buys up everything. . . .
But I really did need that double boiler !” she added plain-
tively.

Glancing at her faultless clothes and arrogant marcel,
I thought, “You don’t look as if you did, my dear! or
anything else connected with cereals and simplicity l” But
perhaps she did. . . ,

And then we all flocked into the house, where my cook-
stove was surrounded with investigators : bearded farmers
lifting its lids, jerking dampers, staring learnedly into the
oven, then closing the door with a satisfied bang; in the
background a tentative wife or two, timidly trying to look
over the bunching shoulders. Mrs. X. and I, as we ap-
proached, quite unintentionally displaced a bashful young
man who set down his stove-lid hastily and melted into
the crowd ; but bidding became ardent, and we soon made
our way out the back door.

“Sixty dollars a’ready !” she ejaculated ; “that ain’t any
bargain, as I can see.”

“No,” I assented; “let ’s go out and look at the stock.”

“Cows don’t bring anything now,” murmured my com-
panion, as we stood behind the row of rather thin Hol-
steins; “and there’s one that’s drippin’ her milk!” she
exclaimed animatedly. “I would n’t ever want a cow that

[16]

THE LONE WINTER

dripped her milk.” The creature’s bag was abnormally
full, and from one of the teats dribbled a sluggish stream,
forming a lavender-hued pool below.

“Don’t believe they milked her this morning,” I said,
bending down to examine the bag ; “they wanted to make
her look like a tremendous milker ”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Mrs. X. reluctantly, hating
to think even that much evil of her kind; “too bad, to
treat ’em so ! But, anyway, I don’t like a cow that drips
her milk! What’s here, I wonder?” And we pushed
open a small door.

It opened on a grassy barn-yard bounded by a high
stone wall. Three horses were standing together; they
stared.

‘‘What a beauty !” I gasped.

“That chestnut colt?” said Mrs. X. “Ain’t she, now.
They’ll want two-three hundred dollars for her, likely.
She’s half Kentucky, half Morgan; and Ralph sets a
store by her.”

As if aware of this commendation, the chestnut beauty
circled proudly round the two other horses : a clumsy work
colt, and a great black work horse with a nobly lifted
head, and shaggy fore feet that he set down in a curiously
tentative way. He was blind.

“Best horse to work that ever was,” said my friend com-
passionately ; “the last horse Dick Hurley had.”

The horse pathetically tilted his head, listening to our
voices; then the other two moved, and, feeling alone in
his darkness, he quickly swung and followed them. The
beauty circled again, eying me coquettishly. I stood still,
holding out my hand ; she stole nearer and stretched out
a long neck, her nose quivering with curiosity, then dashed

[ 17 ]

THE LONE WINTER

away. From the cow barn now came the drone of the
auctioneer :

“Forty — forty dollars — gentlemen, that ain’t any price
for a good cow ! Forty-one — thank you, Jim ! — forty-five
— now we ’re going better ”

“Good time to buy now,” murmured Mrs. X., “but most
folks is short of hay. That ’s where the trouble is.”

After minutes of coaxing and manoeuvering, I managed
to get a hand on the colt’s neck. And such a neck!
Arched and muscled, with delicately cut throat, and the
thin, silken, saddle-horse mane curving upon it. Her
chestnut fore legs, with the lovely band of silver-gold at
the ankles, were spread wide apart — for instant flight;
and, though standing still, she was quivering. I ventured
a little massage on the withers, and at this the quick ears
turned toward me, the dainty nose dropped, and a slight
nibbling at coat-buttons began. I smiled silently, ventur-
ing to move only fingers and eyes ; it was like caressing
a deer — or any wild thing of the forest. The velvet nose
was at last raised to my face ; scarcely breathing, I felt
the warm muzzle creeping over my cheek, and then—
blick! — my wild thing was off.

The barn-door had opened. A sleek fat man in a tan
overcoat stepped into the yard. Chirruping, and fiddling
his fingers, he advanced toward the colt. Ducking her
head, she flourished off around the wall. “Ha-ha !” cackled
the fat man feebly, with a conscious glance at us; and
walked off with dignity to a rock, where he seated himself.

“He ’s come to bid on her,” whispered my friend un-
easily.

“Has he?” I said grimly. “He won’t get her!”

And yet my heart was cold within me! From spats

[18]

THE LONE WINTER

to gloves, that fat man had the sleekness of opulence. I
hastily reviewed our resources. All very well now; but
remember the lean winter to come, the fluctuations and
delays of literature! My glance grew bleak as it flitted
from this adorable investment, now gracefully dancing
past, to the enemy seated on his rock. The objectionable
creature had one hand in his pocket, and was complacently
jingling something. . . .

Just then a buzz of voices was heard, and on the high
bank at one end of the yard loomed the crowd, headed
by the auctioneer.

“Somebody give me a hundred and start her off right.
She ’s a dandy !” he cried. Standing in the grass of the
yard, I gave an apprehensive glance at the mob high above
me. Would anybody? ... To my surprise, the fat man,
on his rock, was silent. A feeble voice came from the
back, “Twenty-five!”

“Twenty-five,” the auctioneer took him promptly up;
“now give me thirty . . . thirty I have, give me five —
forty, give me five — forty-five, give me five ; she ’s a
beauty; fifty, fifty-five, give me five — give me five — give

me five What are you thinking about?” he roared in

a rage. “Two years old and a beauty, sound as a nut

and handsome Sixty! thank you, give me five. . . .”

But at sixty she seemed to stick. I swallowed a lump in
my throat. . . . “Sixty-five !” I quavered, so hoarsely that
I thought he could not hear ; but he pounced on me like a
hawk. “New light broke out!” he exulted; “sixty-five,
give me severity ” The crowd was listening breath-

lessly, and the fat man, I saw, straightened slightly up on
his rock. It was between him and myself and the voice
on the bank.

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THE LONE WINTER

“Eighty, give me five/’ cried the auctioneer, working us
smoothly along; he had three bidders now, and he whirled
ably between us. “Ninety, I thank you, lady —
ninety . . .” but the voice on the bank had dropped off.
The fat man cast a glance at me, sank his chin in his collar,
and slightly smiled. My heart sank still lower. “One

hundred — one hundred ” the crowd stared, and I

nodded a nervous nod — “hundred and five — give me five —
give me five. . . . Give me live l” he shouted in pained
surprise, glaring at my opponent on the rock, who sat
mute. The auctioneer pounded and roared and gamboled
on the bank ; the louder he roared, the more my hands grew
damp, and a hot flush mounted into my cheeks. I stared
at that silent, that blessed fat man; not a sign did he
make, and at last the auctioneer yelled in a fury, and at
the top of his lungs :

“Well, are you all through? If you ’re done, lam! I ’m
going to sell her — I ’m going to sell ’er — once more I ’m
— going — to — sell 3 er! . . . And — SOLD !” he dramati-
cally howled. ... He relaxed, as he said it, shrank at
least two inches in height ; his wrath fell from him, and he
bent, smiling, to his accountant. “Lady in the yard — hun-
dred and five,” he murmured, and mingled with the dis-
solving crowd.

There was a buzzing in my head, the trees on a knoll
beyond grew foggy, and I found myself violently shaking
hands with my friend, then standing quite still for a mo-
ment, absorbedly wondering. . . . The fat man ! not poor,
wanted the horse, but let me have her . . . and my heart
gave a sudden leap. The fat man was a dear! I should
never dislike anybody at first sight again ! Nice, darling
fat man! . . .

[20]

THE LONE WINTER

As Mrs. X. and I wandered out of the yard my treas-
ure’s head was over the barway, staring after us. I am
sure she knew! . . . Congratulations met me: “Great
colt you got there!” “Goin’ to train her for saddle, I
s’pose? She’s got the breedin’!” And last of all (but
not the least pertinent) : “How ’re you goin’ t’ git her
home? She ain’t halter-broke, ye know.”

I did know. As a transportation problem, the cook-
stove would have been far easier. How idiotic, I reflected,
to leave a spirited thing like that unhandled for so
long!

“Could we do it, Pip?” I muttered, and handled my
girth meditatively. I did hate to leave that colt behind.
If she was n’t too ferocious I would hitch her to my saddle,
and leave the rest to Polly. Polly is used to untrained
ponies; but, with a creature as big as herself pulling at
her waistband, — a creature quick as a squirrel on the side-
wise leap, — it seemed a bit dubious. My friend of the
double boiler came up, smiling delightedly.

“If you ’re going to lead that beast home, 1 * m going
to stay and see the circus !”

The hired man arrived on the scene. “ ’T will take
ye till ten o’clock to-night t’ git a halter on her, ma’am.
I know that colt. She ’s never been off the place in her
life. Git her daown by that steam sawmill and she ’d
jump right on top o’ you an’ your hoss!”

“Yes ’m,” corroborated a stout lady standing solicitously
by. “An’ she ’d git away an’ hurt herself, an’ you don’t
want your coltie hurted !” she added comfortably. I stood
there by Polly, in a growing ring of advisers.

“ ’T would be wuth twenty dollars to ye, miss,” put in
an unknown horsy-looking individual, “t’ have a hoss-

[ 21 ]

THE LONE WINTER

breaker come here and handle her. Morgans is easy
balkers.”

That settled it. “All right,” I agreed, swinging into the
saddle ; and Polly streaked indignantly off with me. Nine
miles to supper ! and dusk already fallen. The river had
golden gleams as we loped in and out of the shadows of
overhanging trees, and above was a young moon. Groups
of birches, dull gold in the twilight, hung over the chat-
tering stream . . . and I thought of Donlinna (that was
her pretty name). I hoped she wouldn’t be lonely on
that deserted farm, and I hoped above all that she
would n’t turn out a perfect savage. . . . The hired man’s
confidences had scared me a little . . . but as Polly dug
industriously up our pitches, through the hemlock shadows,

I smiled to myself, remembering that warm muzzle steal- '
ing over my cheek. The sweet, wild thing! A balker,
indeed. A Wild Rose!

* * *

October 1 6.

A wonderful week-end! I wired Babs to come home.
It was too beautiful — foliage simply flaming on the moun-
tains ; and I suddenly felt it unbearable that she should n’t
be here. So she came. We were out every minute; we
simply rode and rode. We flew up the valley to see Don-
linna, rejoicing at the beautiful high-spirited creature as
she curveted about us in the fields. She would approach,
cautiously, within sniffing distance of our horses, — of
whom, Polly seemed bored, but the Maharajah stared gal-
lantly, apparently petrified by admiration! — then, with a
sudden bound, go galloping gloriously away. Her rich
chestnut color was lovely against the autumn tints and

[22]

THE LONE WINTER

forested mountains; and we reluctantly left her, to eat
our supper by a brook. Later we rode home by moon-
light. Such mountains ! in that calm light ; glints of silver
on the stream, blackest shadow under the birches. . . .
The bluest sky! A cool blue. The horses loved it all.
When we stopped to rest, they put their noses sentimen-
tally together. ... In our black woods we rode hand in
hand ; we could not see the horses at all — just felt a warm
joggling going on beneath us. Above were bright glitters
through the trees. The farm was a vision — Alpha and
Omega streaming purple into the sky, the low house silvery
gray, the orchards purple. . . . Then, when one turned,
there was the moon over the mountains, and all the valleys
mellow in her light.

Evenings by the fireplace, with a great blaze roaring
up the throat of the chimney, were so good it was hard
to end them. Hard to put out the lamp, fold back the
hearth-rug, turn Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Castle’s 1 toes in-
ward and leave them in charge of the embers, a lovely,
glowing crimson in the dark, and mount up-stairs to bed.
But we could mount together; and, as of old, great-grand-
mother’s candlestick led the way, its flame flaring confi-
dentially downward at every step.

And then one morning there was the station platform
again, and a strong young hand wringing mine; and I
drove home solitary, with Goliath drooping behind. Going
to the train always depresses him ; so he soaked his trouble
in pools, while Dolly and I plodded drearily along. • And
on our hilltop silence came round me again, like a cloud.

1 Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Castle are the andirons ; neat, slim, black
ones, with elbows a trifle out, — dancing fashion, — and small, sleek,
pale-blond heads. They were named long ago; they can never
be anything else to us but Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Castle.

[ 23 ]

THE LONE WINTER

October 18.

Riding home from the village late this afternoon, I met
a stream of my dear villains trotting briskly down our
wooded road. They hadn’t been out for a long while,
and here were Polly and Goliath and I to greet them
ere the^ had reaped the profit of their sins ! It is a very
nice narrow road with a steep uphill in the woods; a
small brook, fed from our spring, gurgles alongside, and
ferny banks hem it beautifully in.

“Hello, darlings !” I said serenely, as they drew up
and eyed us in astonishment ; “is n’t this nice? Drive ’em,
Gli!”

A flash of yellow rippled toward them: “Boo- hoo-oo-
00000 !” and, turning, they fled in horror. Recessional tails
whirled round a leafy corner. I patted an agitated Polly,
who was proceeding in jumps sidewise up the hill. “So,
lamb ! They ’ll go.” They did ; and were waiting for
us, bunched by the barn-yard gate. Meanly luring them
with oats, I shut them in the sheds. Fence must be mended
before they were let loose; evidently they had found a
fresh outlet somewhere. . . . Bother a brush fence, any-
way 1

Garnished with my usual outfit of nails, hatchets, and
spikes, I rode hopefully forth to repair. My last mend
had lasted nearly a week. ... It was too late in the day
to grapple with wire ; I would try saplings. They don’t
break easily while they are green; and they couldn’t
possibly be dead till spring! Luckily the edge of our
woods is thick with maple saplings that should be thinned
out, so that one can combine forestry with fence-mend-
ing. I like chopping saplings. They keel over with such

[24]

THE LONE WINTER

absurd ease. And they seem so long when they are fallen.
They go two lengths of fence or more, and, as there is
only a small bunch of foliage at the top, trimming is
negligible. In fact, the less one trims the better ; anything
to help muffle holes! Though ponies are not like sheep,
you can’t delude them with a fence that merely looks
thick. They will peer and pry and get their heads through ;
forelegs follow, then a joyful crashing, and across your
mowing pours a glad and kicking stream ! So I nailed and
pounded with a will, and, as dusk was coming obliterat-
ingly down, mistook my thumb-nail for the head of a
spike. ... It was my very last blow, and a hearty one;
so for a moment I did a sincere dance among the thistles.
Goliath ran hastily up, whining with sympathy ; and, from
her tree, Polly intently stared. I could just see her white
star gleaming and her two hind socks standing very still.
It was nice of her ; she had been fidgeting, up to then. . . .
And, with a very ill thumb stuck in a buttonhole, I rode
meditatively home, appreciating the afterglow. Mountains
were high and dark, the valleys full of dusk, and behind
the rims of the world shone a burnt-orange fire, fading
slowly. A big star or two had come out ; across the valley
a dim cow-bell was sounding.

Polly seemed meditative, too. As I unsaddled her
she gave a soft sigh, turning her head toward the hills;
then away into the dark went her orderly steps, seeking
the other horses.

* * *

October 22.

Donlinna is at home — and I am worn out. Yesterday
being Sunday, — of course, all our farm dreadfulnesses
happen on a Sunday, — “Happy,” the horse-trainer, had

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THE LONE WINTER

time to go up the valley, where I was to meet him. But
I overslept, and, though Polly sped me the miles beside
the river, — a glorious day, with color everywhere, — I met
Happy a mile or two this side of the appointed spot,
amiably persuading Donlinna along the dusty road with a
rope as big as a cable. She looked troubled but meek.

“Thought I ’d have t’ hitch her to the axle of the car,
to start her !” Happy remarked, with his dry smile. And
then I noticed her mouth. On one side of the lower lip
was a deep sore.

“Rope bridle !” I thought, and Happy saw me looking
at it.

“Had to !” he commented dryly. “It done her a pile o’
good. She ’ll lead now.”

And she did. In a mile or so more she even got over
her convulsive shying at motors, and came along with a
bored expression. Happy’s car was waiting for him at a
fork of the road, but he first took us across the bridge
that led away from the village and its terrors to a woodsy
mountain road, — a short cut to our farm, — over which I
proposed to conduct the lady myself.

“I ’ll go all the way with you if you want,” he remarked
anxiously, putting the rope into my hands ; but as I smiled
and shook my head, “Wal,” he urged, “I ’ll go slow along
the river, on th’ other side, and watch ye till you turn up
into the woods. If there ’s any trouble you holler and I ’ll
come.”

I promised to holler. The rope was a handful, and my
Wild Rose looked tired — not to say sulky. We moved
off. She followed doubtfully, her nose stretched un-
willingly out. I felt a bit doubtful myself — and entirely

[26]

THE LONE WINTER

serious. (A great bore, to feel serious!) As for Polly,
she was cross. She knows all about leading fractious ani-
mals and doesn’t enjoy it; so she aimed her ears back
and frowned as she paced along, the rope grinding steadily
across her hip. That horrid, familiar tug at the saddle-
girth ! She chewed her bit disgustedly. Across the river
I could see Happy’s car crawling along.

“All right?” he shouted. I waved in reply; and in a
wreath of dust the car shot away,

A very lone feeling assailed me. Donlinna was tug-
ging hard on the rope, and we were on a steep incline ;
there would be several miles more of it, as steep or even
steeper : I must get her coming better, somehow. Perhaps
the rope was too long. ... I shortened it, drawing her
up by main strength, then moving cautiously on, the colt’s
nose almost on Polly’s tail. Suddenly she pulled back,
then darted forward, running across my horse’s nose. I
touched Polly with my heel, and she leaped ahead into a
bank of solid ferns. Donny leaped also, playfully exe-
cuting a huge kick. . . . This would never do ! Plunging
horses in ferns where you can’t see when you ’ll hit a rock
next! The kick had whistled past me and just missed
Polly’s hip. Pulling, with difficulty, the excited pair to
a stop, and back into the road again, I dealt out more
rope.

“Now you get behind, and stay there !” I cried. Wrap-
ping the great rope round my hand, I spoke to Polly,
who bent her neck and endeavored to start. Nothing
doing ! She tugged again, yawing impatiently about. The
rough rope bit into my hand, but I leaned forward and
tugged, too : something in the rear began to give ; we were

[27]

THE LONE WINTER

off. Whoo! I sat up again, then bent to pat the tense
neck in front of me. " Poor lamb, did it pull her nearly
in two ?”

We moved steadily on, Donlinna, with a dogged ex-
pression, and her ears laid back, coming as slowly as pos-
sible. The rope tightened and tightened ; I bent forward
more and more, straining to hold it, while we drew that
unwilling beast up and up, along the damp, woodsy-smell-
ing road with its banks of maidenhair fern, its glimpses
of the valley far below. Suddenly we were in deeper
woods ; a brook crossed under the road in a leafy canon ;
the air was “an emerald twilight.” Going down a
pitch Donny slackened a little on the rope — delightful
sensation ! I thought of the “green h’ants” which a South-
ern friend, riding here with us, had assured us inhabited
such places. On a moonlight night, when shadows are
blackest, it would be blue h’ants — dark-blue, the very
worst kind. If you see one of those you are doomed;
you disappear and are never seen again. If it was a
green h’ant, you merely disappear for seven years. White
h’ants, too, are comparatively harmless, unless they get
you by the hair, when awful things happen. . . .

A pleasing lore! It makes the dark so interesting, —
and just then my arms were nearly wrenched from me!
Not a green h’ant after us — but Donny, who, with both
front feet planted, was objecting to further progress. I
considered her for a moment. Undying resolution I saw,
was expressed in that stuck-out nose with its bulging
nostrils, those far-apart legs, those patient, half-shut eyes.
So I backed Polly till the rope was slack. The colt was
really tired this time and stood in a weary heap ; so there in
the pleasant shade, within sound of the gurgling brook,

[28]

THE LONE WINTER

chaperoned by maidenhair fern of all shades, from deep
green to palest yellow, we agreeably waited. It was warm
and cool both, in those woods ; high overhead the breeze
ruffled, but around us was stillness profound. Back in
the shadows something hooted softly. But it is a str ang e,
birdless woods. The young greenery fits down over one’s
head and, often as I have ridden there, I have never seen
a flitting shape or heard a song. . . . The green h’ants,
of course !

For the next two miles Polly and I pulled in solid
unison. At every step we seemed to pull harder. . . .
Nice durable chin, Donny’s ! . . . As we were both on
the verge of exhaustion, I gasping, and Polly wringing
hot, the mountain crest was gained. We actually began
to go down ! Donny cheered up a little ; she even ramp
sociably alongside. Mercifully we met no cars, and soon
turned into our own half-mile of wooded road, where the
pretty creature (yes, she was pretty, even after this!)
forged eagerly along, lifting a tired head interestedly as
we neared the house. The shed — as we passed — was a
horrible bugaboo; so were the wood-piles and the com
barn, and Donny made a frightful leap into the rhubarb,
which scared her worse ; but at last we all stood, breathing
hard, by the barn-door.

Orderly Polly marched into her stall, and I took the
colt’s rope, fancying all troubles at an end. “Come,
Donny!” I coaxed. Donny lifted her ears, but did not
move. I pulled a little. “Come, silly!” But still she
stared. Dragons — on the other side of that sill! And
she set her feet. I set mine. I leaned back on the rope.
So did she. I leaned so far that if she had let up pulling
I should have gone down with a crash; but there was

[29]

THE LONE WINTER

a fine life-saver on the other end of that rope ! Donny did
not budge. After some minutes of this, I looked dis-
tressfully round. Was there anything strong I could tie
her to, so she could have her pull out in peace ? If I gave
in now and let her run backward, backward she would run
for evermore. ... No ! The big barn posts were just out
of reach. The blanket-rail beside me would break.
Despairing, at last, I gave a vicious jerk ; and to my amaze-
ment she advanced a step ! Aha ! was that the way to do
it? (I had been trying so hard not to injure the darling’s
feelings in any way!) I yanked again; she reared her
head angrily — but actually put one foot over the sill.
Hooray ! Violence forever ! Hastily wiping my wet fore-
head with a spare hand, I took hold and heaved again.
A second fore foot came over the sill. . . .

But that was all. Half in, straddling the sill, she stuck ;
her eyes grew wide ; she snorted, and made as if to rear
back — but now we were within reach of a post. With
shaking hands I fastened the rope, then seized a pony-
halter hanging on a peg, and slipped behind her. One
clap of the halter, — Wop! — and with a bound she was
inside, dancing indignantly. I flew to the oat bin. In an
instant more she was eating out of my hand, fairly purring
with pleasure. I heaved a great sigh. Well! she was
pretty obstinate ; but then she was a baby, and so affec-
tionate. I certainly had not been mistaken in her dispo-
sition. If only I had known how to make Happy’s rope
bridle. . . . My Babs would have known. . . . What a
shame, to be an unmechanical ass, and dodge learning such
things!

I looked at my watch. Half-past three! Nearly an
hour getting her over that sill!

[ 30 ]

THE LONE WINTER

October 23.

A belated apple-picking is being don$ and I am helping
pick. I am longing to ride these glorious days, but
can’t. Polly has seven sparks in her eye. ... It is very
late for apple-gathering, usually we have hard frosts be-
fore this; but October has been amazingly bland. The
mowings are as green as May. A slight frost does n’t hurt
apples, if they ’re left on the trees ; they smooth out in the
sun afterward. , . .

Because of the very hard winter last year, the crop is
almost nothing. Our three young Macintosh Reds have
never taken a year off before ; but this year they decided
on a vacation. The crab-apple tree, that we care least
about, is loaded. It always is. We used to make jelly,
but one year we made so much, and had such a hard time
getting rid of it, and grew so tired, during the next*
summer (and who wants apple-jelly in July, anyway?),
of discovering moldy jelly or crusty jelly or jelly that
looked normal but had a significant champagne flavor,
that it will be years before we feel keen about jelly again.
We blamed war sugar, to be sure, for this, for jelly had
never gone queer before ; but at present we are beseeching
neighbors to bring bags and carry off the superfluous fruit.
Crab-apples are pretty in the grass ; but I hate to see them
fading uselessly away. If we had a pig, now; pigs can
consume the mildness of crab-apples without setting their
poor teeth on edge as sour, cider-apples do. I ought to
get a pig. The farm lacks balance, without one. And
yet I dread the idea of a pig. But when Cressy comes
home what will one do with skim-milk? Ocean Wave
drinks it; but one can’t go all over the pasture to find

[31]

THE LONE WINTER

that fleet and evanescent lady. ... I sometimes don’t see
her for days. And the rest of the ponies — except Bab’s
own Greylight, an accomplished, snow-white old pony,
who drinks coffee with cream and sugar in it — won’t
touch it.

There are no apples to sell this year. Pitiful piles in
the bins. The big Blue Pearmain tree bore hysterically, —
it was a picture, with its masses of rosy-purplish fruit
against the sky, — but we like Pearmains least of all! No
one pretends they are good eating ; and they make a most
uninspired pie . . . One is spoiled, and full of prefer-
ences, on a farm ; I turn a discontented eye on bins that
to a city dweller, I suppose, would mean riches.

* * *

October 24.

Delighted letters from my child about the colt. She
wants to do all the breaking herself — “and not have any-
body take the edge off her,” as I had suggested. After
my late experience I wrote, “Donny is a handsome
devil . . .” ; and by return mail Babs replied : “But I like
devils! Oh, please, don’t have anybody take her!”

My lady, however, is extremely sweet again. I have
put her in the upper stable, and we get on smoothly. The
box-stalls down-stairs seemed to alarm the Wild Rose a
little, and it took a bit of psychology to get her in and
out; but now she is perfectly happy. She has taken a
great fancy to the society of the ponies; they play games,
and run, and so she has deserted the more sober horses
for those flashing mobs which, to my terror, daily pelt
at full speed down the steepest side of the knoll. It
does seem as if they would ruin all their precious legs

[32]

THE LONE WINTER

at once! but they never do. Shetlands have no joints,
apparently. ... A beautiful arrangement! I am filled
with fears lest Donny, in such rash company, hurt her
peerless knees ; but she is in splendid spirits and makes a
picture as she tears down that hillside, or plays in circles
on the sky-line of the knoll. She does this at sunset,
usually — with a background of fiery sky. Her leaps are
amazing. A bird flew out of a bush one day — a mere,
brown bird ; and that colt, in a flash, was ten feet to one
side on a clear jump. I think of my child on her back,
and shiver. And yet, so far, a horse has had to turn a
somersault to get Babs really off — by scraping her on the
ground ! She has always trained animals, beginning with
Reddy, a scamp of a copper-red Shetland stallion. She
was ten and he was two — relatively the same age ; but the
human excels in guile. I can see, still, down the road,
that determined mop of dark hair flying above Reddy’s
back — and pyrotechnics proceeding underneath! But the
stallion turned out a very nice little beast.

* * *

October 28.

I am sitting by my favorite window, looking out on
mountains in comparative peace of mind, having made the
momentous decision not to ride fourteen miles to post
Babs’s letter, which should have gone, early, from our
own little hamlet in the hills. We have just one mail a
day, which starts at a heroic hour in the morning, and
plunges one in perpetual melodrama about catching it. I
have to write and post week-end letters by Thursday!
and if I don’t post them in the evening, — which is some-
times, by farm emergencies, made impossible, — then there

[ 33 ]

THE LONE WINTER

is the bugaboo of routing out early in the cold and dark
and riding off pell-mell, breakfastless, on a disgusted horse
that does n’t want to go ; or the still more imposing buga-
boo (which I have just demolished!) of those seven miles
and back to the village that boasts two mails a day.

After all, there is an antiquity about these inconven-
iences — a primitiveness — that rather pleases one. I once
achieved a youthful essay entitled, “On Being Remote,”
whose main argument was that remoteness was a relative
condition — that if you were near what you liked best, i.e.,
sky and woods and mountains, you were not “remote”
even if you were — etc., etc., a subject capable of loving
expansion over indefinite pages; but with the matter of
that youthful theme I still find myself in agreement.
What portends an occasional and annoying gallop at raw
dawn ? Difficulties — particularly when one can take horse
and daunt them — are good for the soul. Babs and I never
knew how good, until we had a farm. . . .

Ooo ! it ’s snowing ! And there ’s still color on the
woods. ... I thought I was dreaming, just now, when
I went up the mowing road and saw a film of snow on
Ascutney ; but — here it comes ! Long Hill is disappearing
in a wave of gray and white. And my sweet peas are still
nodding at me by this window, fresh and lovely. Poor
darlings, I must pick them before night; it is growing
very cold. It has been rainy for several days. . . . Oh,
those sweet peas against the snow-storm! One red one,
like a ruby; then amethyst and deep purple and clear pink
and blue and cream-white, with the freshest of sea-green
foliage ; all waving against a delicate, pale-gray landscape.
One rose-colored blossom reaches above the rest, to print
itself on a snow-troubled sky. . . . An immense piquancy

[ 34 ]

THE LONE WINTER

about flowers in a winter world ! And these of mine are
so water-colory they make me yearn for a brush. There ’s
a belt of golden birches and poplars, too, in the woods
below, with veils of irrational snow drifting across ! The
mountains, blue a minute ago, are going gray-white. So
are my purple woodlands. . . .

I shall have to get those horses in or I shall lose them.
It has been spring-like until now, and three of them are
out in the grassy freedom that they love. Only Polly is
in a stall. Poor Polly ! she does n’t see why she has to
stay in and never “go out with the girls” ! I tell her it ’s
the penalty of being an angel. Besides, I really have to
have one steed that I can locate at short notice. In a
spasm of sympathy I did let Polly out one day, and that
colt Donlinna (I saw her chestnut tail waving in the lead !)
led the whole bunch, except faithful Dolly, over to a
neighbor’s. A dozen ponies were with them. So I had to
ride Dolly over to get them, and dear Dolly, though a good,
plain, saddle animal on a plain, legitimate road, has had
no cow-pony education whatever, and is aghast at field
tactics. She is not even bridlewise — does not whirl at a
mere touch of a loose rein swung against her neck; so,
though she pounded conscientiously about, panting, her
great eyes bunging out with anxiety, I found it simply
impossible to round up that “contrairy” bunch without my
scooting Polly under me. They were flirting over the
fence with another horse — a great, galloping, whiggering
beast — and either would n’t budge or else darted wickedly
about and eluded us. I actually had to ride back for
ropes and lead them home in humiliating instalments!
Shocking — for good, well-broken steeds ! And my Polly
was the wildest and worst. I could hardly catch her. . . .

[ 35 ]

THE LONE WINTER

Also, they had been wet in the hard shower and then
rolled in a plowed field. Riding along the lane beside
their disreputable backs, I told Polly she was an immoral
old potato-patch. . . . She looked it. Later, when they
had dried off and were being ferociously groomed, I
could n’t see across the stable for dust but worked away,
sneezing, or rushing to the door for air. So since that
day I have put up a temporary bar across the lane, — much
to Polly’s annoyance when I have to dismount and take
it down ! — and they ’ve stayed in. I don’t want to groom
such a mess again very soon !

Snow is stopping, though a few decorative flakes still
wander across the woodlands. Long Hill is deep purple
again; the few yellow leaves on Alpha are distinct and
lovely against it. I have a blazing fire, and a kettle on it
saying “Spiz — zz !” very deliberately. A leak, I suppose.
Leaks are almost always musical ... I ought to be:
Picking up the old shingles that were ripped off the barn
Putting down hay
Mending fence
Training colts
Cleaning stable
Planting bulbs

Picking up dead branches blown down by the storm
Sewing

Cooking, and a few other things — not to mention writ-
ing; but, as I am irrationally- tired to-day, it feels good
to sit and roast and write peaceably on these notes. I
was long-distance telephoning most of the morning, set-
tling the fate of half a dozen ponies for the winter ; per-
haps that is why I feel so. I don’t know any other process
apparently so facile but really so exhausting as long-dis-

[ 36 ]

THE LONE WINTER

tance telephoning; virtue seems to be pulled out of one, as
by ropes. . . .

Besides, one worries about putting the ponies out. It
is like disposing of a score of orphans, in untried homes !
So much depends on so many things — whether it will harm
them or not. They almost always come back to us in
fine physical condition ; it is their little morals that suffer.
Psychology must be diligently considered. Sometimes a
child can do nothing with a particular pony, but is en-
tirely at ease with another — which a second child could n’t
manage at all ; and then that second child gets along per-
fectly with the steed the first child had difficulties with!
It is most perplexing. 'How often I wish we could have
the training of the children as we have trained the ponies !
Annoying, to have a good little beast returned to you
with a flaw in its disposition — or a bossiness on the road
it never 4cnew before ! All the fault of handling : wrong
treatment, or ignorance. There is a list of poor angels
“that any idiot can manage” ! as my child brusquely says
— and a weary time they have of it, being turned over to
the unhorsy; there are fleet ponies suited only to those
who can sit in a saddle and handle their reins ; and there
are animals of perfect amiability but of such determination
on the road that they are fitted only for those who can
not only sit in the saddle and handle reins but (as my
experienced child again says) “kick and cluck and whack
at the same time!” — a really superlative ability.

These latter methods, of course, are for emergency
only ; but emergency will occasionally arise. Getting Elea-
nor past the church sheds, for instance — where once, in
past ages, she was given a feed of oats ! Pull the star-
board rein as you will, Eleanor, with her nose in your

[ 37 ]

THE LONE WINTER

stirrup, curves herself in a half-circle and continues on
her course — into those sheds. She comes out of them with
perfect kindness, but the trip has to be made first. And
Eleanor is a darling pony — the kind that is all chubbiness
and fuzzy hair and thick neck, with an affectionate though
slightly square and dominating nose. The children love
her, and in “horsy” hands her conduct is unimpeachable ;
but the minute Eleanor feels a “greeny” on her back —
keep in the road? Not she. With one roll of an accom-
plished eye, she is up the nearest bank, or cantering vic-
toriously round the unindicated turn. . . .

Then there is Duchess, a golden-yellow pony with silver
mane and tail and stockings and blaze — very beautiful,
soft-bitted, and kindly; but she has a funny mannerism
we call “dip-nosing.” As she trots along — under new
hands — she suddenly dips her head to the ground, leaving
the youngster feeling, for a moment, as if he were seated
on the edge of a precipice. Alarming — till Duchess finds
out you don’t mind, when she abruptly stops doing it!
In any animal except a Shetland that gesture would indi-
cate a deep desire to buck; with our dear Duchess, it is
merely the game to “dip-nose,” and not really worth keep-
ing up. Her daughter Marigold, likewise ,a golden
charmer, inherited a few impatiences with the head, but,
having been in wise hands since her babyhood, is rapidly
losing them. Probably Marigold’s foal, if there is one,
will be immune. . . .

The Chickadee left her precious garden and came over
on my birthday; we wandered in the fields, picked up
two baskets of butternuts, languished at mountains, in-
spected the ponies (including her adorable godchild, Eliza-
beth K., who was investigating a turnip patch, and in a

[38]

THE LONE WINTER

most affable state of mind, coming up to us with a woolly-
nose stretched out), and had a lovely gabbly time. Talk
is a boon, these days ! and much lacking in my present life,
especially at meals. No conversation except “Skuz!” to
Boo-boo when he leans on my knee and sticks in claws
unbearably hard. (“Skuz” is Boo’s own particular word.
He is such a superior cat that Babs and I have always
felt it beneath his dignity to have a common “scat” aimed
at him ; so we invented “skuz,” a word less intolerant in
tone, less explosive and alarming. And, though it is
almost impossible to alarm Boo-boo, we don’t want to
try. He is one of the family; would one say “scat” to
one’s family? . . .) So, until I can steel myself to mono-
syllabic meals, I am taking dinners at a square white
house on the valley road, where they are untiringly good
to me and tolerate a late person coming panting in from
pony chases, and where every day I have a beautiful hour
of gossip with my hosts. Of course we gossip! In the
country, it is disrespectful not to ; we do a perfect job at
it — and I start home refreshed.

* * *

November i

A silly day so far. Writing letters and fussing with
ponies and cooking stew. And when there are so many
big things to be done on the farm ! . . . I can’t do them
myself — putting the blown-off boards back on the sheep-
barn roof, for instance; but when every available man
or boy is busy, the deer-hunting season coming on, when
nobody can be got to do anything, it gives one a horrid,
squashed feeling, somehow. As a dear literary aunt once
said to me about housekeeping, turning up her eyes in

[39]

THE LONE WINTER

despair, “I can’t cope with these things, my dear; I can’t
cope with them!” ... I shall be feeling that way soon?

Well, the letters had to be written, and (I suppose) the
beastly stew had to be cooked ; but I ’ll never embark on
a stew again. I did an enormous one, to save cooking
anything else for as long as possible — a stew lasts for-
ever ; but when one is n’t skimming or stirring, one is
slicing vegetables, or putting wood on the fire; putting in
more wood, more water — boiling, simmering, skimming
again, seasoning, tasting — an endless round. Stew is so
persistent; so successive. And so deterrent to mental
processes ! Then when it ’s all finished, and the morning
gone, behold! it is nothing but something to eat — and
might just as well have been a short thing, completed in
ten minutes. A New England bringing up is a fearful
thing. It leads one to believe that combinations like this
are estimable, also economical. Fanny says so; and
Fanny, in a staid brown linen cover, has been, in maidless
regions, one’s household salvation. Ever since, in a little
house on a dune, I made my first gingerbread under
Fanny’s direction, — and saw to my amazement, a wet
thing in the oven begin to swell up and grow brown and
crusty just as Fanny said it would, — I have sought, in
a domestic way, no other gods. . . . But I don’t believe
Fanny, or anybody, ever said stew is economical of time
— and that ’s what, this winter, I shall be miser of. If
I were running ten farms, I should still carve out a space
for my job. . . .

Yesterday, also, was a day of practical exertions. Kind-
ness, our black Welsh pony mare, got out, and after riding
in a dozen different directions I found her at D.’s, a mil *
away. Kindness’s long legs do a good job while they ’re

[ 40 ]

THE LONE WINTER

about it. Winkie was with her — dear, tractable Winkie,
the same color but just half the size. Kindness is slim
and tall, Winkie short and fat; they made an amusing
pair, galloping guiltily along the lane neck and neck. As
that was a rather serious naughtiness, — going so far away,
— I have both of them on stake-ropes for a few days.

Animals on stake-ropes are a care. If they are not get-
ting wound up, or tangled round a bush or a stub in the
ground so small you did not see it and were sure you had
them in a clear spot that time (and we have ponies who
would wrap their rope round a grass-blade with success),
why, then they are hungry or thirsty ; you must be taking
them to the trough, or shifting them to new grass. A
hearty pony will eat a twenty-foot circle to its roots in
a short time. Ponies love roots, anyway ; with green feed
at hand, I have seen them stand in one spot and paw —
just grubbing for something new, something a bit more
interesting than grass. For a Shetland’s active little mind
needs feeding, as well as the rest of him. In winter the
herd gets so bored in the barn-yard, so sick of confine-
ment and limitations, that they fall to kicking each other
out of mere soul-weariness. I have often thought I would
make them a present of a foot-ball or plaything of some
sort and see what they would do with it. They might eat
it; they certainly wouldn’t let it alone till they had ex-
hausted all its possibilities, mental, moral, physical! . . .

On a stake-rope, therefore, a pony gets fairly desperate ;
especially if he is out in a far meadow away from society,
from anything more enthralling to watch than the flight
of a bird overhead. For I have seen a bored pony watch
a bird; swing its head and roll its eyes pathetically, in
a wistful following of that swift way of getting where

[4i]

THE LONE WINTER

one wanted to ! “Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a

dove !” was a thought plainly visible ; as was the big

sigh that heaved those round sides after the bird disap-
peared. ... So compassion — a troublesome adjunct in
farming! — gets the better of you, and you spend time and
social effort stalking over the fields to console these shut-
ins. Poor dears! they do brighten up so when they see
you coming. Conversing busily meanwhile, you take a
casual burr (or a ball of burrs, perhaps) out of tail or
foretop; pick up a scrap of a foot to see if it needs trim-
ming; fondly scrub an investigating rubber-nose with the
palm of your hand, — that always seems to amuse a pony ;
part the hair along the spine to look for animation within ;
braid a tangled mane, plant a kiss on a happily-uplifted
head, — and pass on to the next.

Kim is always on a stake-rope, — or chain, rather; he
eats ropes, — so is used to it, and does n’t need visits. He
takes his animation out in roars, for if ever an equine
ear appears on his horizon off he goes with a salute
of twenty-one guns immediately. At least it seems so
sometimes when one is riding over the fields on a job
and not wanting to be howled at. Though it takes a sight
of pony size to make him really show off. When I drive
a bunch of Shetlands down past him, Kim not only roars
but takes such an earnest run to go with them that he
forgets there is an end to his chain and turns a somersault
when he reaches it, getting up with dried grass in his
foretop and stick a baffled expression. . . .

In the afternoon, when I had Winkie and Kindness
nicely settled, the telephone rang. “Mrs. B. says some
of your little ponies are in her new-seed piece, and will you
come and take them away.” I would. Polly and I went

[ 42 ]

THE LONE WINTER

round the corner on two and a half legs. Fifteen of them,
I counted ! all busily grubbing up tiny, tender grass. . . .
Hurroosh — Btfo-hoo! . . . Goliath chased them round the
buildings, while Polly and I lurked in the front yard, Mrs.
B. looking out of her door and beaming at our efforts. A
mad stream shot out into the road — Boo-hoo again! and
off for home. Polly simply lay out flat to follow them.

Ocean Wave, after a lapse of days, has appeared in the
barn-yard this morning. For some time I had been saying,
with a start of remembrance, “Oh! I must go and see
where Ocean is !” so, when I turned the corner of the corn
barn and saw that fond smile of hers looking over the
fence at me, I was rejoiced. Ocean was so glad to see me
she grinned steadily for ten minutes! Ever since our
riding-trip this autumn, when she was our pack-pony (a
most humanizing experience),' she has been our devoted
slave, and runs to greet us. ... I gave her a peppermint;
she obediently ate it — and took a quick dive for the water-
ing-trough! Then she looked ruefully round at me:
“What in time — was that thing ?” I never saw a more
disgusted expression. And my Polly would walk up-stairs
for a peppermint!

I have n’t seen Ocean since. Probably she has reverted
to her favorite back pasture, — not ours, — where live
the work horse mare and colt she has developed such an
affection for. Since our trip, she prefers the society of
big horses — quite scorns her own kind.

Donlinna is going on nicely now. She leads very well
— where she wants to go! And I can coax her the
other times. Like Kipling’s Babu, she is a “very fearful”
person — afraid of the narrow path by the com barn
(where she once jumped into the rhubarb !), of new doors

[ 43 ]

THE LONE WINTER

and gateways, of anything that looms over her head ; but
she is growing more and more affectionate, in a shy, wild
way that is touching. She nibbled my ear yesterday. I
stood most . still. ... It takes a certain nerve to let animals
nibble you, but Donlinna is absolutely trustworthy in that
way; so I let her sniff me all the way to my toes — her
favorite caress — without a qualm. . . . She is not so trust-
worthy with animals, however, her great joy now being to
go up to poor Kim, staked out in the field, smell of his
nose tenderly, then turn round and flash him a most ter-
rific kick in the chest ! He is beginning to look very coy
when she approaches.

Little Errands, a pretty brown three-year-old about half
Kim’s size, is his slave at present. She hangs around
him all day and all night ; and to-day I found her securely
moored to his rope ! one hind ankle twisted and tangled
in the strands not two feet from his nose. Kim, with a
slightly annoyed expression, was grazing calmly. Errands
is very shy — the only one of the herd, except a baby or
two, afflicted in that way; and I had a time untangling
her. She struggled till I thought she would leave a leg
behind, pulling her captor’s head down and down, while
I marveled at his patience. . . . Kim certainly has a dis-
position in a million; when I had Errands free at last, I
gave him a cautious hug and braided his silver foretop for
him. I love that foretop. And. his wavy, shining mane.
When I go up the lane for him at dusk — we never leave
him out overnight — I can hardly see him. But I find him
by his foretop. It shines out so on the dark. . . . He is
always standing very still at the extreme end of his tether,
staring intently at me. And then he leads down very fast,
twirls into his box, and jams his nose into his grain ! I

[ 44 ]

THE LONE WINTER

have it there waiting for him, because several times he
has knocked the oat measure out of my hand in his enthu-
siasm, and batted it all round the stall
Yesterday I drove him to the village in the pony break-
cart. We met the usual fifteen ponies in our narrow
wood road, sweetly coming home all by themselves, and
nearly had a. smash-up, he was so thrilled. He howled and
jumped and bellowed and backed the cart into the bushes ;
but I got him by — and felt very limp afterward. Later we
passed a man who stopped an abominably long time to
talk, putting up one foot on the wheel ; and Kim tactfully
drew the cart over Mr. X.’s toe. I was so charmed ! The
cart is light ; I loathe having boots planted on my wheels.

3 i« * *

November 9.

I seem to be neglecting this journal; but such a busy
week ! And now there is only time for the merest head-
lines. . . . Thursday, drove twenty-four miles with Dolly
and the cart (to see about a pony, of course!). Friday,
Polly and I took Duchess twenty-two miles over a moun-
tain road to her winter home. Such mountains! and
Duchess pulled back most of the way. A gorgeous ride —
wild beauties on every hand, color flaring still in sheltered
nooks, and always evergreens and rocks and brooks. . . .
Duchess has a nice big stall next to the cow; when I said
good-by to her she had found a way to squeeze her nose
into the cow’s manger and was very busy munching grain.
Duchess won’t grow thin this winter; she’s a butter-ball
already. . . . The people insisted on my staying to din-
ner, and were very kind. We went home slowly, and,
reaching the village just at supper-time, were told that

[453

THE LONE WINTER

“the machine” was coming up next day to thresh our oats,
but that I was to “get the help”! And six men are
needed !

They had always brought their own help before. With
dire foreboding and a sense of injury (mixed!) I hurried
home. Polly and I were weary. I changed horses, took
a bite to eat, and rode out over the darkening hills. I
rode and rode. Next morning, I rose by a dark-gray dawn
and rode some more — breakfastless; and in all collected
five unwilling men. (They do hate a threshing job! and
one can’t wonder— such a dirty, blinding, choking affair.)
The sixth was not to be had ; neither telephones nor horse-
legs could raise him ; and the valiant five turned to and did
the threshing somehow. How they did fly ! The boy who
tended the sacks where the stream of grain pours in was
incessantly jumping; above him the owner of the ma-
chine, who sees to the stuffing of straw into its hungry
maw, madly stuffed and stuffed, in a whirl of thick dust,
for hours. One other man purveyed straw to him, dash-
ing back and forth between the pile and the thresher, while
the two remaining “help” — neighbors, who had come over
out of the kindness of their hearts — desperately clawed
away, and stowed inside the open cow bam door, the
threshed straw that came steadily rushing out at tlim
We were all glad when it was over (a frightful noise a
thresher makes!), the dust settling, and the fine, fat oats
safe in the bins. Oats have such a rich look. There seems
little more needed to take one through the winter, once
those important bins are full.

But I surveyed rather ruefully the strange sight of my
cow bam crammed to its ceiling with yellow straw. We
have never done that before, either! But there was n’t an

[ 46 ]

THE LONE WINTER

inch of room in the lofts; the hay crop was beyond all
reckoning this year. . . . Well, I shall have to put Cressy,
when she comes home, in the horse barn. And that is a
mess. I hate a cow in a standing stall ! And it will prob-
ably be weeks before I can get a man to move that straw
into the loft — after hay has been hauled out to make room
for it ! . . . Anything, however, to get the threshing done.
I ’d put a cow in the summer kitchen — for that !

After the excitement was over that evening, and every-
body put to bed for the night, I fell asleep in my chair —
just long enough to wake up smothered and find that the
lamp was flaring and the room thick with falling soot!
So, next morning (of course it was Sunday), when I had
conspired to rest, it behooved me to take the blackened
room to pieces and make it over again all fresh and new.
. . . Then, after hours of labor, just as I had heaved a
sigh of relief and sat down to dinner in a decent room, I
saw flakes of snow wandering down; so I hurled dinner
in the oven and ran hastily out to salvage the great heap
of yellow chaff in front of the hay barn doors that I
did n’t want to have get wet. Chaff is invaluable bedding.
It would take too long to get Dolly and put her in the
wagon — she was out somewhere; so I seized the hand-cart,
opened the barn-yard gate, wheeled the stuff, load after
load, to one of the sheds, and shut it safely up.

That evening, too, I fell asleep — over my supper ! and
went abjectly to bed.

* * *

November io.

A stirring day; November at its best — with a sort of
delightful menace in the air. Riding up on our mountain

[ 47 ]

THE LONE WINTER

mowing to herd down ponies, I stopped a moment to take
in that heartening scene. Deep-blue mountains rimming
everything; pink, rolling hills ; purple woods, with a dash
of poplar-gold — and over all a lowering gray sky. The
thick, pleated kind. The wind was fitful, but in it, as it
blew from those far mountains, was a hint of something
different ; something I had not felt before. Winter ! And
I squared my shoulders, drawing a great breath. . . .

Something to meet, there. A battle with cold and snow
and bitter winds ; and a barnful of dear helpless ones to
care for. I looked down at the huddled orchards, the red
gable-end, the three small chimneys sticking out; and at
the miniature village of roofs about the tiny barn-yard.
Presently those gray roofs would be deep-blanketed in
white ; the little red gable would show bravely above curl-
ing drifts. . . . All the world (except where it was
purple) would be white; and all day, all night long under
the winter moon, two small smokes would drift away.
Three smokes, if one were prodigal. But, like my neigh-
bors, I should probably condense and live on the sunny
side of my house, leaving the living-room in charge of the
frosts. Those fireplace logs are big and heavy. It is
something to keep the two other fires stoked and supplied.
Their capacity, on windy days, seems tremendous !

But I shall like my battle. This sort of day puts one in
mood for it. Plenty of wood in the shed, jam and pota-
toes and apples in the cellar, hay and oats and Cressy in
the barn. Pooh — what is winter? I have a feeling it is
very near; but — to see the storms whirl across the woods !
Last winter in town we missed it all; and Babs was
mourning for “my snow !” . . .

[48]

THE LONE WINTER

November 12.

My dear, friendly Cressy is here. She scared me so ! I
went into the bam at dusk, had no lantern with me and
was unsaddling in the blackness — but there was Some-
thing in a box-stall — breathing! I knew I hadn't put
anything in that stall ; but then I smelled a milky smell —
and knew.

The pasture is rather dry, and so I am staking Cressy
out in the mowings. She seems pleased to be at home. I
never was so stared at ! She is in the little orchard to-day
— where the ponies won't touch the grass because six
years ago geese trod on it! — and everywhere I go those
big solemn eyes follow me. She even stops chewing, to
stare. A rare tribute ! I am very lame from milking, but
it is delightful to have cream again, and Cressy, with her
honest cowiness, is a relief from incessant horse. It seems
good to handle a food-producer. And yet how I dread to
milk!

A strange season. There are still a few golden leaves
on the birches ; to-night there was a surge of boiling gold
in the west, edging purple clouds. ... I saw it beauti-
fully from the barn-yard — our barn-yard is a scenic spot
— while I was collecting buckets of water for the house.
A leak in our plumbing ; so I totter in with pailfuls from
the trough.

This seems to be a semiannual performance. I did it
for weeks last spring, before the plumber could be haled
from other — and more convenient — village jobs. He has
a beautiful excuse — seven miles away, and a wet hill at
the end. (I think there is a spring under our road in the
woods.) Br-rr-rrrrr! go defeated tires. . . . But it is a

[ 49 ]

THE LONE WINTER

long and variegated walk in from that trough — through
barns, round corners, or else up a hill and through a gate.
And one has sufficient hauling of other substances to do,
especially at the late, weary end of the day. Hay and
wood; wood, wood, and hay — in Perpet-u-o! (I feel
like making a Latin anthem out of it. What is Latin for
— hay? Or wasn’t hay invented then?)

But that wood-pile is one of my trials. Our wood has
always been put in the shed in orderly stacks, with an aisle
down the middle, but this wood was thrown direct from
the sawing-machine into a huge heap in the middle of the
shed. A .few stacks line the walls; but the mountain is
interdictory. One can’t get at the stacks ! Small wood is
mixed with large, and so over the pile one climbs, select-
ing. Every time I expect it to slide under me ; every time
I give thanks for a descent without a sprained ankle.
Very often wood has caved and I have gone sliding down-
ward with it ; twice I have hit my lantern, putting out the
light, shattering the globe. A wood-shed is n’t as inflam-
mable as a hay-loft; but I don’t love a lantern breaking
all over it, just the same ! Nor do I enjoy sitting violently
down, with a load in my arms. . . . Night and morning,
however, I continue to climb — reviling, as the mountain
ominously stirs and rumbles under me, the makers of that
pile; also wondering, incidentally, if I shall get through
the winter without a bad smash. ... I can’t smash ! This
whole winter depends on my being able to poke hay to
beasts. I will poke hay !

* * *

November 13.

A most thorough time getting ponies. Instead of racing
home properly across our mowings, they all dived down

[So]

THE LONE WINTER

the branch road through the woods, and, as I wouldn’t
trot my Polly down that steep hill, they got a dreadful
start on us. I heard the thunder of them across the flats
before we were half down. The imps ! knowing we were
after them, they did n’t even turn in at any of their usual
places, but scudded out on the main road, and so, after a
good deal of riding about and consulting neighbors, I
discovered them at last — high on the sky-line of a pasture
between us and home.

This pasture adjoins our land and is a great
amphitheater, woods on its crest, and hillsides rolling
steeply down to a bit of valley — our front valley — with
the brook in it. (A gorgeous spot — which we mean to
own some day ; it is our view, and it ’s nice to own your
view.) Just as I rode up, the ponies scrabbled over a
wall. They tangled their legs in loose barbed wire and
didn’t mind a bit — but tumbled over anyhow, a pictur-
esque muddle of manes and tails and leaping shapes ; then
off ! gamboling happily across the steep, goldenrod-
forested slopes below the woods.

Alas ! Polly and I scrutinized that wall up and down ;
but I have had experience in catching a horse’s hind ankles
in wire. Polly is a good wall climber, and a fair jumper ;
but — barbed wire ! It rises up and smites you when you
think you ’re safest. ... So I tied her, very wondering,
and staring after me with big eyes, in a scarlet sumac
grove, and pelted off on foot. Stumpy things — feet ! after
one is used to musical undulations- under one. . . . Stones
and stumps and hollows — that hillside was made of them ;
and the ponies were clean out of sight. . . .

They came in view soon, however — on the upland by
our front wall. If I could only hop them over right there !

[ 51 ]

THE LONE WINTER

but the barway was far down — across the swamp, in the
valley. Racing down the cow paths, an excited dog at
my heels, I let down the bars and planted him in the road
outside. “When the ponies come down, Gli,” I explained
with elaborate pantomime, “you drive ’em! Boo- hoo!
Drive ponies — home ! See ?” Sitting down in the exact
middle of the road, with a conscientious tail sticking
straight out behind, he rolled wise eyes at me and prom-
ised. I ran up the hill and started the ponies. Soon they
were beyond any jurisdiction of mine, sweeping down
toward the bars, and I could only wait — praying that
Goliath’s wits be equal to the occasion.

They were. As the ponies slowed down by the bars,
and began to leak through, a wild voice from the other
side — a collie voice desperate with responsibility — shrilled
at them ; collie yelps echoed in the woods, and — yes ! bless
him forever! up through the trees they came, worrying
along, single file, nose to tail, nudging and nipping at each
other, the sunlight glinting on white and yellow and bright
bay. . . . Secreted by our wall I watched them file by;
and with such peace at heart. For if something had n’t
turned them they would have darted off to the wide world
again, and all the long process been to do over. Behind
the last tail came faithful Goliath, pacing demurely
along. He never hurries an animal that is going
where it ought; and the dears were just then a picture of
conscientiousness. Uphill is good for their morals. Down-
hill they are imps. Elizabeth’s fat fuzzy sides were
heaving, I saw, as she pressed close by her mother’s flank ;
while Thalma’s eyes, in her little black head, rolled watch-
fully backward . . . that dog! If they only knew how
angelically harmless he is ! But heaven has given him a

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THE LONE WINTER

screech like tack-nail across a window-pane — it pierces
their little injy-rubber souls; and what this farm would
do without it, goodness knows ! With much guile we got
them into the sheds, after which Gli put his kiss on my
hand, then hung two golden paws (with their dear little
silver tips shining in the sun) over the edge of the trough,
and delicately lapped. . . .

But there was still Polly to be rescued from her sumacs,
so over our front wall I went. Boo-boo, who loves walks,
was delightedly following me, and of course Goliath ; but
I was rather surprised when, with a crashing and wallop-
ing of stones, Cressy, who had slipped her rope, also
blundered over that front wall and came gamboling after
me! ... A cat, a collie, and a cow! I felt delightfully
escorted. Much elated at her feat, Cressy went leaping
down that hillside, waited for me at the bottom, crossed
the brook, and started, with coquettish head-shaking, up
the other side. The old dear! It was sweet of her to
want to walk with her Missis, but after one had labored
achingly up the tremendous slope, and ridden all the way
around by road — there was still an errant Cressy, at large
in a strange pasture (and cows are usually idiots in a
strange pasture), to redeem. . . .

The poor thing had followed me as far as she could, and
I had left her staring over the wall into the sumacs, mur-
muring “Mm-baw !” to herself. The note of cow dis-
appointment. . . . But when Polly and I reached the bar-
way, expecting a long climb to get her — there she was
quite near us ! nid-nodding busily down one of the trails
and talking as she went. “M-m ! . . . Mm-baw I" I gave
one casual “c’boss,” and she fairly galloped to meet us.
Lonesome, she said, she ’d been ; and a very happy cow

[S3]

THE LONE WINTER

paced feverishly ahead of us, up the wooded pitches to-
ward home.

Boo-boo had reached there first, and, upright on his
special stone on the wall, — a scenic stone, whence he sur-
veys the world, — he greeted us warmly, falling in behind
Cressy as she waddled to the barn.

One began to think one’s animals were collected, and
where they belonged, at last !

* * *

November 14.

A queer autumn, this. One of. the most exquisite, —
with rarest coloring, blue haze and atmosphere, days fresh
and yet warm. And it leaves me cold. I look at beautiful
woods and hillsides, my mind approves them, I murmur
with the greatest sincerity, “How lovely that is” ; and yet
it doesn’t matter a rap.

Solitude, I suppose. For whenever my child is here,
things bloom again. Feeling comes alive. That is my
trouble! a sort of deadness to what I so much love.

A most external time, too, one seems to be having. I
race and chase so much — things so drag me physically
hither and thither, I don’t have a real thought a week.
“ ... To sit down and be happy thinking,” R. L. S.
says ; yes, indeed ! But if you have to jump on a horse
and think about stones in the road ? . . . For years I have
been used to being sedentary in the morning, and
can stand as many hours on a camp-stool as the next
person ; but this scatteration — this scrabbling ; this activity
that has but infinitesimal relation to the brain — dear me,
it’s tiring! A farm is like a very large and extended
baby. It takes a great deal of time and very little men-

[ 54 ]

THE LONE WINTER

tality. Or rather the mentality is so terrifically spread
out that one is unconscious of using any! . . . And then
being all alone comes in, too. Every time any one goes
to the barn it 's yourself. Every time there 's something
the matter in a far pasture it 's you that inspects it. You
saddle your own horse and fetch your own milk and lay
your own table and cook your own meals; worst of all,
you decide everything — you yourself! That, on a farm,
is a career in itself. It’s up to you! And so awfully,
actually up. Decisions are real ; not concerned with hypo-
thetic art. ... If you are going to add ten ponies to the
herd another year, will there be hay enough in your
present arrangement of fields, or must the three-acre piece
— that piece up there, with a dip in the middle, and a
rock in the upper edge — be put into grass? Will oats
twice in succession ruin a bit of land? Will your old
apple-trees die faster, or more slowly, if mercilessly
pruned? Can you possibly scare up enough organic fer-
tilizer for the land you want to plow? . . . Shall that old
stallion who is an awful nuisance, but whom you admire
and are fond of, die or live? Would it be safe to breed
for another year the pony mare who lost her foal ? Shall
the baby who 's a bit less strong than the others be weaned
— or shall he stay with his mother and imperil next sum-
mer's colt? . . . Real, real, real! Stone and rocks and
soil — blood and bone and growing things. . . .

They weigh on you. There seems to be a compartment
in your mind set apart for their consideration; but that
does n't prevent the other previously used compartments
from feeling horribly vacant. The practical compartment
does n't seem to be biggest; if it were, the others would n't
bother you so.

[ 55 ]

THE LONE WINTER

November 15.

Something must be the matter with Cressy, or with me.
She jumps so, when I milk her . . . and milking is bad
enough without that ! As I draw up my low stool, Cressy
looms above me; I sit down under that hot, hairy, breath-
ing bulk, with my arm pressed against an ominous hind
leg, which now and then shifts, very quietly, as if prepar-
ing for a stupendous kick. A toothache is running up
both arms, but I manipulate, with what skill is in me, a
pair of fleshy handfuls, meanwhile gripping between my
knees a receptacle that seems infinitely wider than the
accustomed back of a horse. All this is paralyzing enough;
but in the midst of it to have your animal, absolutely
without warning, and at intervals as uncertain as the firing
of an unseen gun, give a great, galvanic start that dis-
arranges you on your stool, wildly swashes the milk in
the pail, and sends cold things, succeeded by hot things,
flying all over you, is dreadful ! Cressy is usually so good.
So still and cud-chewing and altogether moral. I don’t
understand these leaps. And they frighten me so ! Not
mentally; just, somehow, physically. For when Cressy
jumps (right on top of me, it seems) every nerve in me
jumps, too, as if trying to jump me right off my milking
stool and out the cow barn door. And while I sit there
milking hauntedly, almost holding my breath, I feel as if
I were waiting for a gun to go off.

As far back as I can remember, that has been one of my
terrors. If any one even points a gun on the stage, I am
in misery; sometimes I fly to the refuge of the foyer —
and even there have a wild desire to put my hands over

[56]

THE LONE WINTER

my ears ! Years ago, when Bernhardt and Coquelin were
playing “Cyrano,” I lost part of a whole act that wayj I
could n’t bear those soldiers on the stage. . . . Yet I am
fond of the feel of a gun in my own hands, and only the
other day seized Babs’s rifle, which stands loaded by the
kitchen door, and shot long and passionately at a squalling
crow. ... A most inconvenient way to be made!

One can’t, however, run to the foyer when one is milk-
ing. So I sit and quake. It must be the queer way I
milk, though three years ago I experimented with Cressy’s
mother and she seemed satisfied with my technique. . . .
Perhaps I have not sacrificed quite enough finger nail in
the interests of milk production (and this is one of the
minor afflictions of the art) for you must have stubby,
brainless-looking finger nails (which I hate) or of course
your cow will kick.

* * *

Same day. Evening.

I am very bright. I am so bright I think I must glitter
in the dark. I have discovered what is the matter with
Cressy !

She has a sore teat — a bramble-scratch; and until to-
day it had not occurred to me to look for such a thing.
. . . Amateur asininity! Did I not once deal, for weeks
and weeks and with anointings and many horrors, with a
similar ailment in Cressy’s mother? She ^didn’t jump, to
be sure ; but one might have thought

Now I know what to do. Even to-night poor Cressy’s
hops have moderated; and one sees light ahead. The
prospect of a galvanic animal for all winter was hardly
soothing; and I did want to diagnose those leaps.

C57]

THE LONE WINTER

November 18.

Paradise! I have had Three Men here to-day! A car-
penter and a plumber and a “general.” The boards are on
the sheep barn roof ; the house is banked, and looks snug
and comfortable, as if it had its straw muffler round its
neck at last. Winter windows have been nailed on the
pony sheds and on the barns, the barn-yard fence is made
secure, and water-pipes are at least partly mended. Of
course the plumber could not stay long enough — he has to
go home and milk cows himself, poor man ! — to attach the
faucet and a wee bit of pipe ; so I shall have no water till
to-morrow. All because of rats. They ate a hole in a
lead pipe, and, as the lead pipe was under a floor, the floor
had to be taken up. Drat rats !

* * *

November 19,

So thankful for the banking and the roof. To-day we
are smothered in snow. I have put up bars across the
pasture lane, and the herd of ponies, much discomfited, is
at last in winter quarters. Unless Indian summer melts
us later on. And there does n’t seem to be room to put
anybody anywhere, with that threshed straw filling our
useful cow barn — where there are not only cow and calf
stanchions, but horse stalls and pony boxes and all sorts
of conveniences. In the lower stable every stall is full,
and Dolly is tied in the “ditch,” a narrow pony stall. Al-
though she fills it up quite tight, she is so orderly she
does n’t object. Cressy is in my Polly’s stall. So an un-
expected head sticks up. from everywhere — horns, too ! It
makes one quite dizzy. And the amount of hay they seem to
eat ! I pile the hay alley full, and in a wink it is empty again.

[58]

THE LONE WINTER

November 21 .

The pasture lane is now deep in drifts; the ponies are
growing gradually resigned to winter quarters. It is won-
derful to have them actually in — to be free of that night-
mare of an escaping army clattering down the road ! And
yet . . . Hay ! One sometimes feels as if life were com-
posed of it. Our bams are old barns that have been added
to now and again, so that they are fearfully and wonder-
fully arranged ; you climb up ladders into one mow, and
pull and labor; then you go down those ladders and up
others and into more lofts, and labor again. Animals are
dotted everywhere — the horse stable, the hen-house, the
sheds; and that makes for prolonged travel at feeding-
time — long portages of forkfuls of hay, winding through
various sections of stable, and out across the snowy yard.
Great mountains have to be taken, night and morning, to
the barn-yard or rearmost sheds, for that is where the
larger part of the herd lives. I string out the fragrant
hay — it is delightful stuff to carry! — in long rows upon
the snow; the ponies love to be out, and there is more
room in the open. For fights ! And fight they will, over
their breakfasts. Fantana — pretty Fantana, with her sil-
very mane and affectionate brown eyes — clears a twenty-
foot space about her before she will take a bite; Ocean
Wave is a tempest; and Thalma, the little fat black
mother, has despiteous ears during her entire meal. It
seems to be chiefly the ladies that fight, the few geldings
being mild, bashful, and very much in the background.
Bringing up babies develops intensity apparently; all the
mothers make awful mouths at each other — and a rush for
any rash gentleman that invades their precincts.

[ 59 ]

THE LONE WINTER

At night, however, they and their supper are shut in,
and doors fastened tight against the cold; for out they
would pop, if allowed, and spend the night on a drift.
So, after a series of good-night hugs and pats, I leave
them, with a sweet-scented mountain heaped on the floor,
and all the heads clustered about it. A pretty sight, in
the yellow lantern-light; and then lantern and I go
out under the stars, give a farewell look at the fast-
freezing water in the trough, and join Boo-boo — who
is always waiting for me — on the white path to the
house.

About three hours each day, I find, are spent on hay
and its accessories — shoveling of barns, carrying of water-
buckets, and shining up of the coats of such of the dears
as are to appear in the public eye. The others one does n’t
shine. They roll in the snow and enjoy life! . . . The
hay I am getting now seems to have been put in in some
extraordinary fashion that makes it almost impossible to
root it out. It is very long hay, to begin with, beautiful
timothy, that almost hid the mowing-machine last sum-
mer ; and the haymakers must have spent their time wind-
ing it up in balls, indissolubly connected with other balls,
and all, moored firmly downward to some unseen source.
One cannot seem to find any ends or unraveling-places.
I pull and pry with no results ; selecting a more favorable
spot, I give a heartfelt heave — and the fork comes up with
about three spears on it ! After a quarter or half an hour
of this, I peer hopefully down the hay hole into the alley
— and, for all my laborings, there is hardly enough for
half a stable’s breakfast ; and while the day is young, and
the light good, one wants to put down enough for an entire
day. (Getting hay by lantern-light is a horrid perform-

[60]

THE LONE WINTER

ance ; a sort of green twilight pervades, and shadows are
ominous — also delaying. . . .)

Meanwhile, the hay smells beautiful. You cannot help
loving it; but when your hands are aching (in two pairs
of gloves — a pitchfork handle, in winter, being like a bar
of ice!), Goliath sitting expectantly below, Boo-boo pur-
ring round your feet, hungry beasts whinnering, your own
supper waiting, and the lantern, set on a beam, making
you very nervous for fear it will fall off into the hay —
then, the process seems intolerably long.

Perhaps I shall get to an easy place soon. Some hay
winds up much worse than other kinds. June-grass, being
short and slippery, is delicious to handle ; but I don’t seem
to come to any June-grass! I wish this windey stuff
would leave off. Weeds help — beautifully; when I arrive
at a layer with goldenrod or blackberry bushes in it, things
come apart so graciously that I simply crow. The ponies
love a few bushes for a change. ... In the pasture our
old Julia will nip off a thistle top before she even glances
at grass. And with hay it is the same. They steer for the
weeds. . . . The mow is still high up toward the barn
rafters; I can almost look into the swallows’ nests plas-
tered under the beams. White feathers, with which the
swallows line their nests, are scattered on the hay. Always
white feathers — small, downy ones, the underpinnings of
Wyandotte hens, of which my nearest neighbor has a
flock. ' Even so, the swallows must fly half a mile for each
feather. Wouldn’t gray, or black, feathers do as well?
Or do the parents wish illuminated nests for their young?
In the nine years during which we have pleasedly inspected
these abodes, however, the lining has been the same*
Sweetness and light !

[61]

THE LONE WINTER

It is delightful to be up so high, treading on hay—
where all summer was space, dusty sunbeams, and a flying
ground for swallows. The view from the tiny window is
glorious ; one looks down into valleys, and across more
tumultuous mountains, it seems, than from any other
window on the farm. . . . So pitchfork and I linger. A
winter moonrise is marvelous, from here — a great mellow
thing sliding up behind snowy fields. ... In late sum-
mer a fringe of baby swallows sits on this sill, where now
one ’s elbows lean, chittering imploringly as parents skim
by. Then, when a parent has gleaned sufficiently from
the ev ening air and approaches with a beakful, the noise
redoubles as they stretch up on their baby tails and madly
flutter little wings, each striving to be fed first; a cun-
ning drama, that row. Now they are all grown and gone
—to Florida, I suppose. Pitchfork and I have the win-
dow. Leaning out, I talk to ponies in the yard, who gaze,
and can never find me. They look everywhere but up ;
finally abandon search for that miraculous voice coming
from nowhere.

But one has not long to spend with one ’s head out of
that hole. There is a wagon-load of straw to be put down
as well; but straw is nothing— all slippery and separated;
almost able to walk forth of itself, it is so willing ! And a
pile of it weighs little. So bedding is one of my joys,
pretty and clean and rustly, and pure gold under the
lantern-light. Also there is the nice feeling of making
everybody so warm and comfortable for the night. . . .
The horses in standing stalls have to move over, and look
a trifle bored with their beds, but in the boxes one is met
with deep interest and a bent, snuffling nose. . . .

Grain, also, is a decorative feature of one’s day, with

[62]

THE LONE WINTER

charming, arched necks bending to greet you, and low,
imploring whinners. A grain-whinner is very different
from a water-whinner — or the roar of miscellaneous
hunger that goes up at one in the morning. There is a
finesse about it ; a certain specialness that is unmistakable.
I love my grain-whinners, and the steady, blissful grind-
ing that follows.

The bams, when I leave them, are all musical; in
orderly, affable procession, Boo-boo and Goliath and the
frothing milk pail and I — for I can milk fast enough to
make froth now ! — go very complacently along the snowy
path into the house.

* * *

November 22 .

It is snowing hard ; and a gasolene torch is buzzing in
the kitchen. This should be a day of peace — Sunday; but
none of one’s Sundays are! The snow is thick and
heavy, and Dolly and I had melodrama getting the ‘plumber
up here — him and his tools ; frightfully hard pulling. He
had rashly ventured out in his car, but had to abandon it
by the roadside. I fear he will have even a worse time
getting home, the snow is falling so fast.

This morning, also, three of my good neighbor’s boys,
armed with pitchforks, — no matter how many you have on
the place, a true farmer always brings his own pitchfork
with him, just as a pianist imports his instrument, there
being something intensely personal about the hang of a
fork, — came unexpectedly up the lane and, in what seemed
to my relieved mind about five minutes, hiked that objec-
tionable straw out of the cow barn into the hay barn, and
out of the hay barn into the loft. I fancied it would be

[63]

THE LONE WINTER

a day’s job at least. But they are swift and purposeful
boys — talented with the fork. . . . Deliverance! Now I
can have Cressy-cow in her proper spot, a horse or two in
the stalls, pony-babies in their right places, and relieve the
awful congestion downstairs . . . though it ’s been noth-
ing to what it was one crowded winter — the war winter —
when I had seven foals loose, in the aisle, and wherever
one went one bunted into somebody. That was a fearful
mental strain — for the babies as well as oneself ; but to-
day how Cressy did march into her stanchion with satis-
faction in her eye ! A cow loves her very own place.

Oo! I am smothered with that torch. All the house
smells of hot metal; and Boo-boo, after seeking desper-
ately any other rest for the sole of his foot, has just leaped
into my lap, papers to the contrary, and, after curling
himself around six times and economizing his stub as
much as possible, has camped down on one end of the atlas
(on which I am writing) and a piece of my arm. Poor
Boo ! I am in his upholstered chair by the window, near
the fire ; and, for him, there is no chair but one. . . .

Superb and Sunshine, two of the new ponies, came by
express, in neat crates, yesterday — luckily just before the
storm; and Dolly and I led them home. Sunny, however,
is only a yearling, and stuck his feet in and would n’t lead ;
so, with many qualms, I let him run, and all the long
miles he followed his mama — in rushes, and with many
lost whinners. He is a very appealing baby — fat and
fuzzy and very tame. I have these two in the hen-house —
now decorated with whitewash, yellow straw, and a yard ;
it illuminates my solitude greatly to have them there, just
outside the kitchen windows, where I can see them when
I ’m making coffee. They seem pleased with their quar-

[64]

THE LONE WINTER

ters. Superb is a handsome, queenly creature, — bright
chestnut, with white stockings, — a mother of many, but
young and gallant still. She has a way of throwing up
her head and gazing magnificently into the distance — at
nothing ! I have run out twice to see what she was staring
at, and there was n’t anything. So I let her stare now.
I like her immensely.

It is still snowing steadily.

* * *

November 25.

Brought my dear child home from the station — in a
sleigh. On the way down, the road through the woods
was lovely — untrodden snow, and hemlocks laden deep
with it. Not a breath of wind was stirring ; the branches
simply hung — so far that one had lapfuls of snow! In
one place the entire road was filled with hemlock;
Dolly dived bravely into it, and the great branch
lifted, dousing me with avalanches of wet snow. At an-
other turn, an entire birch-tree top was prostrate, its dark-
red twigs fluffy with snow, and very beautiful; Dolly
plunged, but I managed to jump out and hold up the
sleigh, and just got by. Three times I stopped and emp-
tied a sleighful of wet snow !

The next day — Thanksgiving — was a glittering one of
purest white snow and blue skies — and everybody’s tele-
phone out of order. The Chickadee, a little lady living
some miles away across the valley, was coming to dinner
with us. When everything was on the table, gay with
festal adornment, we threw open the door to look down
the snowy valley for our guest. There was no sound ; no
speck crawling on the valley road. We closed the door re-
luctantly. I adjusted a flower in the centerpiece.

[65]

THE LONE WINTER

“Oh, she ’ll be along. Hard pulling in this snow, you
know!” I said; and once more we occupied the door-
sill. . . .

At three o’clock we sat down to an overdone dinner,
having gone through all the stages of lingering hope. But
we were frantically worried. Something dreadful must
have happened! The little lady must be very ill — or she
would at least have sent us word . . . she was all con-
science ! We raced through our dinner, chucked the bird
in the pantry, saddled up, and flew . So did the snow. A
ball from Pud’s galloping forefoot took me neatly in the
eye. At last, as the winter dusk was settling down, the
Chickadee’s lone light shone out across a bare stretch of
snow. Her little house cuddles under great pines; that
lone light was very beautiful. Also it sent our hearts up a
peg. “She ’s there, anyway !” we gasped, and urged our
horses on.

A little figure, still in its festal gray crepe gown, stood
in the door. Eloquent eyes greeted us; the Chickadee’s
eyes are like gray pansies.

“I ’d been hoping for this !” and before her crackling
fire we had the awful tale — how the old man who is our
village livery driver had not come for her, how she had
hoped and hoped till the last minute, when there was no
way to let us know. She had had dinner with neighbors
— but what time did we sit down to ours? and was it
completely spoiled? And oh, dear, and oh, dear! . . .
But we had nuts and cake before the fire, our plowed-up
feelings gradually calmed, and we rode off quite com-
placently under the stars.

Starlight, afterglow, and mountains! All the laden
trees drooped; even the Chickadee’s great pines trailed like

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THE LONE WINTER

weeping willows, and the pert spruces up our wooded road
were scarce recognizable, so lamentable were their poses.
Also they hung far over the road, their appealing fingers,
each one with its white burden, reaching out at us ; and all
the way, with much merriment, we dodged branches and
neckfuls of snow. Polly is a beautiful dodger; swerving
away from pendant branches, in the dark her twistings are
most unexpected. These roadside twigs were cold and
wet, and if there is anything my neat Polly despises it is
wet ears. She shook hers steadily ! Pud is n’t so fussy ;
he forged obliviously along in his accustomed straight line,
casting away platefuls of snow from each foot, — and Lit-
tle Missis had to do some animated steering. Several
times we bumped violently into each other, and great was
our resulting mirth. A joyful ride . . . but when we
climbed up into the open it was a relief to see Alpha and
Omega sticking up really straight against the stars. Things
had leaned all the way! Once in the dry stable, Polly
dropped her head with a sigh: “Thank goodness, thatfs
over !”

Such a pussy-cat of a horse !

* * *

November 30.

A dismal day. Babs gone ; and Polly and I had a tragic
ride fifteen miles over mountains and back to bring home
a pony I heard was being badly treated.

“Yank? Say, that boy yanks him something fierce!”
exclaimed my informant. “He J s too nice a pony to be
treated thet way !” he added indignantly. . . .

So early this gray, melancholy morning, I scuttled
through the chores, turned everybody out into the yard,

[67]

THE LONE WINTER

and trotted away. Polly did n’t want to go. Like me, she
has had four days of indulgence and society, and was re-
belling at traveling alone. Being naturally sensitive, and
trained to a hair, she made all the motions of doing what
I wished ; yet we did n’t seem to get anywhere ! She took
plenty of steps — but they were about four inches long
each; she fussed (the road was a little slippery) about
where was best to set each foot down; she wound, and
weaved about, and — worst of all — kept looking behind
her, sighing! Rather too pointed a hint; and I finally
gave her an exasperated dig in the ribs. I don’t wear
spurs, but Polly has been trained to them, therefore she
gives a dreadful grunt and leaps forward if I even make
a spur-like motion. So now she lunged, and her fore feet
slipped, and I pulled her up and apologized, and— rwe went
on just as before !

It was noon when I rode stealthily through the desired
village — a bald, flat village, so unlike our romantic little
hamlet. . . . And I was extremely uncomfortable in my
mind. This family, when they came for the pony, had
seemed like nice people, fond of animals ; at least they had
hugged everything on the farm they met, and cooed over
Elizabeth. . . . Would a person coo, out of mere guile?
Or walk an extra half-mile in a cold wind, as these people
did, to see a Shetland baby? . . . One hated to snatch a
pony away; perhaps they had no idea the boy was ill-
treating him. Perhaps my informant had a grudge against
them and was taking it out this way. . . .

Behind the school-house the children were playing their
noon games, Jerry’s alleged tormentor probably among
them ; and I stole by, hoping he would not rush out and
inquire my errand. If only one could have felt sure!

[ 68 ]

THE LONE WINTER

The school-house once safely passed, I rode quickly on.
Now for courage, and a keen eye for Jerry's condition!

At their barn-door the father greeted me with surprise.

“You 're ridin' a good ways from home ! Won't ye put
up your horse and c’m in?" he inquired, with rather un-
easy hospitality. My heart smote me.

“No thanks," I said, nervously; “I — I've come on a

rather unpleasant errand " and, with a gulp, I told

him. The man appeared amazed ; yet as I began speaking
I noticed a flash of something — a queer something — go
across his face, and intuition sounded a warning.

“Can't imagine what enemies the boy's got," he mut-
tered, “t’ say such things. . . . But you can look at the
pony; he 's right here." And he opened a door. The
stable was spotlessly neat ; two work horses stood in their
stalls, and near them, in a sawdust-bedded box with a low
door, lay little black and white Jerry, fat and shiny-coated
as a pony could be. Once more, misgiving seized me.

“He 's had his carrots !" mourned the man dolorously,
and unlatched the door of the box. To my surprise, Jerry
did not look up at us, but lay there quietly on his sawdust
bed. Strange! for Shetlands are always so alert, and
greet one with a whinny of pleasure. I spoke to him. He
did not even turn his head.

“Jerry dear," I murmured, going in beside him, “won't
you get up?"

And then he glanced up at me. I caught a sudden
breath. Such a lusterless, dead eye ; such a sad, oppressed
little face! . . . Something bounded wrathfully inside
me ; and, as the pony at last stood upon his feet, I went
quietly out and took down his saddle and bridle.

“I am sorry," I said gently. “You have taken good care

[69]

THE LONE WINTER

of him ; but I am afraid I must take him with me.” Cinch-
ing the little saddle, I took the leading-rein and mounted
Polly.

"I 'd sure like to know who 's been saying these things,”
persisted the man. “I don't blame you a bit; but you
would n't feel like tellin’ me, I s'pose ”

“No,” I said. “1 'm sorry. Good-by.”

We moved off. As I lifted the rein, Jerry started
nervously ; but soon we were trotting briskly along toward
the village. All was quiet as we passed the school-house ;
and, with an unconscious setting of the jaw, I rode de-
liberately by, staring at the windows. That boy ! I knew
now, as well as if the pony had had speech to tell me, that
everything was true. My gay, spirited little Jerry, cowed
to this ! and not until I had ridden several indignant miles
did I realize that Polly and I were both extremely hungry.
At a big, hospitable-looking farm-house we turned in, and
the kind housewife provided a belated dinner for all three.
We were perfect strangers, but she would take nothing,
waving us off with smiles and many entreaties to “come
again!” What generous people one does find in the
world !

‘Mile by mile, holding his head higher and higher, little
Jerry pathetically brightened up. His little feet pattered
so gaily that Polly, now inspired by companionship, and
with most cheerful, home-going ears, had to do her best to
keep up. And Jerry, though slinging his small legs amaz-
ingly, never broke his manful trot. So, by early milking-
time, instead of by cold dark as one had expected, a happy
three hastened up our hills. Jerry was fairly giggling
now — such a changed, eager, anticipating little face, nod-
ding beside me !

[ 70 ]

THE LONE WINTER

“I should know you now, Jerry,” I told him; “I hardly
did, in that stable !”

Slipping him into the yard, I watched a moment at the
gate. The ponies rushed to meet him, and for an instant
there was tumult; but it soon subsided, “Oh, it’s only
you!” they discovered, sniffing lengthily at him; and de-
cided not to kick him after all. Later, I had to come out
and visit him by lantern-light ; and what a bright little face
was put up to greet me! You can tell so much from a
face. Especially a pony face.

A delicious, a golden day, though it is raining irrational
torrents and melting away all our lovely snow ; for I have
at last moved in my typewriter by its winter window, and
started on a sequel to a story that has just come out in the
Christmas number of a magazine. I am, and always shall
be, I think, in a state of astonishment at seeing anything
of mine come out. It is a never-ending thrill. I want to
hug that magazine ! My editor is a dear. No doubt he is,
in reality, a quite awful person ; but, as months go on, our
correspondence grows more and more jocose. I find it
hard to write proper, statuesque letters ; before I know it,
I flop into informality and humor. Is that what has
thawed an editor?

* * *

December 3.

Last evening I had a heart-to-heart ride with our kero-
sene can. For days there had been psychology about
getting that can to the store, every day there being some
deep reason why it was impossible to take it — till finally
our last drop was gone and a lightless evening confronted

[7i]

THE LONE WINTER

me. I was sure trees would be down — I could n’t take the
sleigh; and, though we had carried many strange things
on horseback, we had never tried oil-cans. But of course
one could !

It was raining- pouring, icing — all at once. I wore an
obliterating black rubber poncho (which at once grew stiff
and crackly with ice) and rode rustling down into the
woods, where Polly and I found a big birch down, its
maze of branches filling the road; this time they were
heavy with ice. Dismounting, I held some of it up for
Polly to gp under, which she didn't want to do, but
snorted and jumped when icy twigs slapped her; the saddle
caught on a stiff limb ; she gave .a wild bound, dragging
me out with her ; and the branches clanged to again behind
us, like £ mail-clad door. She fidgeted dreadfully, while
I mounted, then scurried angrily along to the village. Ice
on one's ears hurts !

Tying her in the shed, I went in to the lighted store.
The postmaster was busy changing mail, and as I entered
out of the storm a dozen men and boys were filling the hot
little room, their faces still creased with pleasant laughter.
They stared hard at the interruption! Here and there
talk was renewed, but in subdued murmurs, and I stood
by the stove steaming embarrassedly under my soggy hat-
brim, my poncho shining with melting ice, while mail was
hastily given out and the postmaster dashed by me, — down
cellar for a pound of butter, up-stairs for some obsolete
article not kept in the store, — until oil-can, bread, and
papers were handed me and I could retire. As Polly and
I, adjusting our parcels, rode by the steamy window,
joyful guffaws came to our ears. The blight on masculine
merriment was removed !

[ 7 *]

THE LONE WINTER

Icy rain was still pelting furiously. Where could one
carry that slopping-full can? If I set it on the pommel,
we could only proceed at a walk ; if held out by my side it
nearly pulled my arm off ; so, dangling it somewhere down
by Polly’s knees, I bent forward on her neck — quite the
pose of heroines fleeing through flaming forests with arms
round the neck of a runaway steed ! — and let her go. She
flew. I never — in any position — rode faster. I thought
that horrible can would tear me in two. ... It was pitch-
dark — as it rarely is under the heavens ; mud, snow, and
water flew about us ; and under me was the wild pounding
of my horse’s feet. I could feel her shoulder muscles
beating at my chest. Though I made feeble efforts to pull
her down, she never paused, but flew on and on, up hills,
down jolting slopes, till round our corner we bolted; I
knew it only by the quick slant of her, the new beat of icy
rain in my face. My arm was nearly done, but I man-
aged, gasping, to change hands on it, which made one’s
balance for a moment very queer, with that wild galloping
underneath.

Then all at once we crashed into the icy branches.
Ducking my face down into a wet mane, I let her go, for
Polly was by this time out of hand ; she fought and leaped
and crashed through those mail-clad trees as if cannons
and fire-crackers were after her. It sounded so! The
noise was deafening. Branches whacked viciously on my
poncho. Up our steep hills she tore. I could see nothing
but a gray and black blur, but ... the tree ! We were
coming to it ! It would scrape me off ! ... I slid over,
hooking one knee on the saddle, lowering the can till it
bumped, but crouching far down beside Polly’s neck. A
fierce, tense, throbbing neck. My weight swung her to

[ 73 ]

THE LONE WINTER

one side — cr-rash ! Icy whips, breaking branches, a cruel
jam on one shoulder — and then only hoofs tearing at ice,
a horse’s wild breathing. ... We were out.

Half blinded by rain, I tried to pull myself back into the
saddle, was making it, inch by inch, when the galloping,
slowed down, hoofs slid under me — and my horse halted,
quaking, before a black wall. The barn-door! I let the
can go on a drift, and somehow slid off. . . .

I am not going down to-night. The road is particularly
awful ; ice is still on the trees. I went on foot, slipping
and sliding down the hills, and peered into the woods to
make sure. I have tried taking Dolly on one of these dark
trips, and she was worse than Polly; she stumbled so,
plunging out of the track into the drifts, that I actually
had to go back for the lantern and dangle it about her feet
so that she could see ! Even then she fell flat once ; the
lantern flew wildly up, but did not go out. I was proud
of that . . . and hauled poor panting Dolly up again.
Perhaps to-morrow I can try the usually placid Pud.
Though he is so fresh now that even in his stall he gazes
wildly at me with a peeled eye. . . . Donlinna, on the con-
trary, who used to be the shy one, is now so sweet ! She
does n’t peel eyes at me ; she kisses my cheek and rubber-
noses my hair, and is a perfect darling.

To-day I ’ve been “reel smart” ! Written from nine till
two; and am crowing with joy to be at work again. It
makes one’s days seem far less bounded by Hay. Not
that I don’t enjoy hay, but hay judiciously mixed with
other things. Also I have been rereading “Vailima Let-
ters” ; and R. L. S.’s phrase, “it is hard not to drop into
the farmer,” — drop, mind you ! — runs in my head. Drop?
One does n’t know whether to feel compunctious or in-

[74]

THE LONE WINTER

suited over that word. People who enjoy eggs and cream
tell us farming is a noble career; since the war, especially,
we have felt quite puffed up over our high-minded selves !
But Stevenson has always been a sort of gospel to me ; and
“drop” does n’t sound nice. . . . After this, one’s pen
shall exude marvels daily. . . .

It is now six o’clock. Everybody is fed and watered
and bedded and grained and milked, benedictions pro-
nounced all round, and the piano-lamp presiding gener-
ously over my fortunes. I feel, somehow, infinitely rich :
brave letters from my child, plenty to eat in the house,
plenty of books, plenty of writing surging in my head, and
all the animals happy.

That surely is a lot.

All day it has tried hard to clear up, with a high wind,
and patches of blue that swiftly went gray and produced
snow-squalls ; then bursts of sunshine. Altogether a pleas-
ing day, and variegated ; it is also bracingly colder, with a
north wind that, as I sat milking, bored accurately into
the side of my head. There are some fine cracks, right
beside Cressy; for her pet stanchion — she positively re-
fuses to go into any other — is close against the pig house
wall ; and I must have those pig windows closed up. In-
deed, I need my “general” again; the ponies broke the
barn-yard fence by the watering-trough this morning and
all came swarming up the snowy paths to the house. Gli
drove them back with fury.

* * *

December 5.

This morning I took a little walk in my mind. I needed
to. Round the comer of Mount Vernon Street, along the
mud and noise and commerce of Charles Street, not for-

[ 75 ]

THE LONE WINTER

getting the colors of shrimp and mackerel in the fish-shop
window, the glamourless row of English primroses (each
in an insulting pot) at my little friend the Jew florist’s, or
the groups of belated breakfasters still browsing over their
newspapers at the Kitchen — never without a slight and
blessed aroma of literariness about them, — the antiques,
including the perennial full-rigged ship, next door. Then
through the silent peace of the Garden, its boundary tree-
tops and church-spires ; on up the opulent miscellany of
Boylston Street. At last, rounding Copley Square, — the
only use the majority of citizens ever make of it, — I lin-
gered doubtingly on its sundry corners and finally ran
to cover in the public library, that refuge of the illit-
erate. ... /

That, of course, brought me promptly back here to my
own book-strewn room, where, without the accompanying
fragrance of old clothes, I could turn over favorite maga-
zines. But — the air of the room seemed unspeakably
fresher! I had been to town, and, barring shops, had
seen all, in a single day, that one usually sees of it. I
had taken care to spatter the streets liberally with trucks
and trolleys, had inhaled a just amount of gasolene,
smoke, and dust; and the expedition seemed to me com-
plete. With what complacence I could now watch the
poetry of the falling rain across the woodlands; how
priceless were mere air, and quiet, and the far horizons
of my mountain world.

But sometimes one does need a noise. I think I shall
have my exiled piano moved in from the living-room.
I had thought of parrakeets; but I believe a dictated
noise would be better. There are times when one em-
phatically does not need a noise ; in fact, I have had to let

[76]

THE LONE WINTER

even my dear Gothic clock run down, with its remorseless
ticking. But parrakeets would be worse. There is an
intentionalness about them. If you are quiet, they imme-
diately think you need waking up, and proceed, with awful
squawkings, to accomplish it. . . . Besides, think of the
luxury of sinking into Beethoven at will. I have been
bereft of him so long — and Brahms (whom I can play
very little of), and Schubert, and Tschaikovsky — and for
that matter of everybody — except my newspaper clipping
of Pierre Monteux! My child cut it out and sent it to
me, after the fresh rapture of a concert. I have it
propped up on my table, right before me. It is a picture
of the excellent man conducting, baton raised, left hand
familiarly out. . . . Must have been taken at a rehearsal,
for he has on a sack-suit — with ingenuous wrinkles run-
ning down from where his arm is raised. A conductor’s
dress-coat never seems to wrinkle ! But I like the loose
sack-suit. It smells of work . The whole picture is actual
— and has Monteux’s expression, to the life. . . . The
expression when he ’s just going to begin — that smooth
cheek, with a bit of a smile. ... I keep the clipping
turned back to front, when I ? m not working; when I sit
down, I face it about. I take a sort of breath: '“Now!
Begin!” And I see that arm come down!

Then I set to work like ten thousand demons.

So that is a sort of music. But still I want my piano.
It isjpld but mellow ; good to andantes. One quite wallows
in its middle notes. So much of my farm job here is
practical — a mere tapping on the surfaces of things — that
I badly need to wallow in something.

Of course, there is outdoors. Scenery. Poetry made
visible. One wallows in that when least expecting it —

[773

THE LONE WINTER

when walking, perhaps, sploshily, across one’s winter
barn-yard. There it is! A star, above the snow-laden
barn roofs; a purple apple-tree leaning over the drifted
white of the pasture lane ; or a line of many-colored ponies
munching, against dusky sheds, at their long green wind-
row of hay. ... I am fearfully indebted, too, to my
lantern, especially when its chimney is nice and smoky,
as it usually is. Perhaps I hang it inside the pony shed
and go back, as I am always going back, for more hay :
behold, across the graying yard a golden doorway set
upon the dusk, and a high square of romantic window,
dimly orange. A most suggestive window. One expects
a Roxane, at least, to lean out of it ; and a sound of plain-
tive lutes approaching. If I leave the lantern inside
the barn, and navigate the yard a la belle etoile, there
are scary, illuminated cracks as I return. . . . There is
something fearfully fascinating about a lighted crack.
One always wants to peer into it. I do sometimes, well
as I know my venerable barn. It looks as if there must
be Somebody — in there! . . . Then if I set the same
benevolent smoky escort on the snow outside the barn’s
fagade, behold instantly a glamourous effect of footlights
— and Drama, somewhere, about to begin. The old gray
boards, vanishing upward into dusk, are dimly golden.
The snow is bright with gold. And the mere look of
the lonely pathway, leading spookily away into darkness,
sends shivers of "anticipation down one’s spine. . . .

But the lantern sits calmly by, melting a circle in the
snow. I pick it up and go bobbing prosaically along to
the house; yet the vision has been — the poetry is stored
away inside one ; and I set the milk-pail on the sink, and
take off my barn boots, with a sense of richness ineffable.

[ 78 ]

THE LONE WINTER

I am extremely happy ! I Ve begun to do something I
always thought I couldn’t, and envied those who could:
compose on the typewriter. I thought the beastly noise
would interfere; but (apparently) in the bright lexicon
of literary labors there is no such word as Noise. . . .
Hooray! It will save untold time. I have one literary
friend who sits up in bed with a coffee-cup on one knee
and dictates her stuff — to a paralyzing person sitting op-
posite with a pencil. That is a pinnacle I shall never
reach. . . .

I even have to put Gli out, when he lies and stares at
me. A typewriter is audience enough. But, as it is, I
see books. I see them leaping into life. I see an au-
thor’s undreamed millenniums, stretching away, and' I
almost believe I have earned ’em — literary ones, that is;
for if ever a person has slung hay and milked cows and
cooked breakfasts and cleaned barns with phrases surg-
ing in her soul and ideas bursting at her brain, it is
this person now tapping (when she ought to be getting
dinner) on the frenzied keys !

* * *

December 6.

Sunny has the soul of a gentleman. He is only a year
old; a brown Shetland baby with extra-furry legs and
(quite) clean silver-white stockings (for a baby!); and
he resides, with Superb, his mother, in the hen-house be-
hind the back yard pump. It is a transformed, pony-hen-
house, now ; its roosts have been taken down, it has been
whitewashed, and, bedded with yellow straw and with
its southern windows, makes an ideal detention-camp
for new-comers, who can stay there till I find out whether

[ 79 ]

THE LONE WINTER

they are going to develop temperatures and sluzzly noses
and have acclimatizing distemper or not. An outdoor
yard has been fenced in, cornering on the pump; and
from the kitchen windows I can see brown and chestnut
things moving, and hay breakfasts going on. I had
thought I was going to miss hens ; but pony noses more
than make up. Superb’s nose is uncommonly eloquent.
She comes to the corner of her fence and tells me ex-
actly what she wants. If it is water, she stands there
alternately eating reproachful mouthfuls of snow, and
staring at the kitchen windows. I get the bucket at
once. Her signals are never misleading : when the bucket
arrives, she drinks deeply and decisively. Sunny dallies
and messes with his ; the two friendly noses just fit into
the pail together, but soon mother emerges with a jerk,
and the baby has it all to himself. To encourage him, I
lift and tip the pail ; and that is where Sunny shows him-
self a true gentleman. Though, clearly, he may not want
it, and his fore legs are sloped to turn away, he never
fails to take a complimentary sip or two — just to oblige
a lady; and then splozzles it out fondly upon my coat-
cuff! He is an affectionate child.

Yesterday afternoon Polly and I went to visit the
Chickadee, who lives on a rival hilltop, and loves it as
much as we do ours. We both boast dreadfully about our
respective hills ! It had been a warm, gray day ; pur icicles
— a three-foot fringe of them — were polished and drip-
ping; and at every other step Polly slumped grievously
down into the soft snow. Our road is too little trodden
this winter ; it needs wood-sleds running over it to pack it
down. It was a pleasure to see trees upright, and bushes
back where they belonged ; the hemlocks had a look of re-

[80]

THE LONE WINTER

lief. Our little brook was shouting; “a January thaw!” it
informed me, and roared accordingly, if such a rill can
roar.

At the turn of the valley road, I thought we could trot ;
whereat we nearly took a double-header, and Polly’s nose
was in the snow ! The slumping continued ; and a slump-
technique is horrid. “Fox-trot a bit, Polly dear,” I said,
“and I ’ll sit tight” ; for what is the use of rising dutifully
in your stirrups only to have a slump suddenly knock
you in the diaphragm like a mallet? Even a fox-trot was
hazardous; and after a dozen tumbles we subsided to a
resigned walk. Far across the valley we could see the
Chickadee’s light shining at us, and “Oh, Chickadee,” I
sighed, “why are you so far away?”

But, slump, drip, and all, it was a poetic ride. The
snowy, winding road, with dim trees brushing into a
dimmer sky, was just a series of winter etchings — with
the song of the brook thrown in. A star or two strug-
gled mistily through the clouds ; a gentle rain set in, soon
becoming a solid rain indeed. The voice of the Kedron
sounded like a spring freshet. For a while we lost it
in dense hemlock woods ; but when we came out above, by
the clearing where in summer a whitethroat always sings,
that roaring rose to meet us. My riding-clothes were
soaking; but at the Chickadee’s there were stall and
blanket for a weary horse; a blazing log fire, nice hot
conversation and cake with butternuts in it, for her rider.
And, if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth, we should have
made a long afternoon of it.

Elizabeth is an ass! She is a darling, of course; but
when it rains, and her mother is inside the sheds (with
her head looking wisely out of a doorway), Elizabeth

[81]

THE LONE WINTER

is usually to be found standing firmly out in the drizzle,
a mass of sopping-wet wool. And rain is not good for
babies. As Polly and I hastened on our homeward
miles, therefore, slumping dismally as we went, we had
a charming vision of Elizabeth, left to her own devices,
and soaking up as much rain as possible.

For it was pouring now. Icy water beat into our faces,
and a beast of a north wind was sweeping down from
the hills. Jamming my wet-gloved hands into wetter
pockets, I sat in my saddle with chattering teeth. Im-
possible to hurry. Polly was falling along, rather than
walking, losing one leg after another; and when we
reached the blessed blackness of hemlocks on our final
pitch it seemed too good. . . . The ice was harder there ;
Polly stuck in her toes and simply buckled. Loud shouts
greeted us from the barn-yard. We were two hours late !

Dismounting, I did everything on the run : raced
through the cow barn, — where Cressy, peacefully in her
stanchion, stared at me, — tore open the rear door, gave
a summoning whoop, and everybody (including Elizabeth,
wet as sop, as I had expected) came rushing in. Also
some extra ponies, who didn’t belong there, and knew
they did n’t belong there, but whom I had the deuce of a
time getting out again. Then I blanketed such wet people
as needed it, Donny assuring me, with many solicitous
touches of a soft nose, that she was entirely perished;
and ducked out into the rain with hay for the yard
ponies. A dozen of these must of course, like idiots, stay
behind where driblets of hay had dropped from the fork,
and give me a desperate chase to get them in — into a
lovely, dry, golden-lighted house, too, knee-deep with sup-
per, and a lantern hung on a nail to make it look extra

[82]

THE LONE WINTER

cordial. I am not often late, and when I am I try to
make it up to them.

Wooden buttons were at last turned on a peaceful
crowd, all chewing devotedly ; and one gave a sigh of re-
lief. No ! There were the horses in the lower barn. So
one got up speed once more. . . .

More insulted hoo-hoos: everybody still more exceed-
ingly starving ; so I watered them — only they backed away
from the trough with snorts of disdain ! — and bedded, and
hayed, till all was a rustling, munching silence.

Limply, I hung the fork on its hook. My wet clothes
were clinging to me ; my dinner had vanished into a dim-
mer distance than Sunday dinners usually did. I hurried
into the house. Eight o'clock ! But the fires were blaz-
ing, a kettle steamed, and soon, in a house-dress, with a
delighted and violently purring cat in my lap, I sipped
hot tea by the hearth and opened my book at the
mark. . . .

Thus does one go calling in the country!

* * *

December 8.

This morning is colder; there was an inch of clear,
pretty ice on the watering-trough, but I was able to break
it up with my fork, a mob of eager ponies crowding under
my elbows as I did so. Usually they don’t go near the
trough in the early morning; but as something was being
done to it, it became, of course, the center of interest.
Ponies love processes. Elizabeth was in the front rank,
her chest pressed fervidly against the wooden wall of the
trough; and as soon as water welled freely up she sank
her little nose on an ice-cake with a thud of dramatic

[83]

THE LONE WINTER

relief. One had so suffered from thirst ! . . . The lower
stable seemed chill; Dolly’s contralto gurgle of welcome
was more ardent than usual. Her blanket was wildly
askew, and, stepping into her box-stall, I tugged it
straight. “Polly’s blanket is always on, silly!” I mut-
tered crossly; my fingers were numb with cold, and it
made them ache horribly to pull anything. Dolly, aghast,
rolled her great eyes at me, then, as if in reply, quickly
dived her nose into her empty manger. Breakfast was
the point! and, smiling in spite of aching fingers, I de-
parted for the hay alley.

Yesterday, however, was a day wasted on household
virtue. I wrote not even a paragraph ; I scrubbed every-
thing in sight. And I went to bed defeated, yet with a
true female complacence lurking within me at the speck-
lessness of everything around. . . .

Cressy is “shrinking on her milk.” Can it be that my
dilettante methods are “drying her up”? She appears
well nourished; the succeeding generation gambols in
my ear with unimpaired vitality, but perhaps these cold
mornings in the yard are not good for her. The ponies
are so nasty to her ! Only to-day, as I stood helplessly
watering Kim, I saw her approach the door of the warm-
est shed, which an idle pony, sniffing at the sill, was bar-
ricading. Cressy politely waited ; the pony, perceiving her,
gave a threatening movement of the hips and went on
importantly sniffing. Cressy, her back hooped with cold,
retreated a step and waited again. Seeing me, she turned
her head and murmured “Baw !” disappointedly. Though
burning to go to her aid, I could only hold on to Kim’s
rope and shout remarks at that unbudging pony; but at
last I leaped the fence and bore bellowing down upon the

[84]

THE LONE WINTER

offender, who melted unobtrusively away. Knowing full
well that the bellowing was not for her, Cressy stepped
graciously in. She is used to the noisy methods of
rescuers.

* * *

December io,

It seems strange that one. can’t get through feeding, wa-
tering, and otherwise starting on the day’s affairs fourteen
ponies, four horses, and one cow — not to mention a cat
and dog — before ten in the morning. I rise (with groans)
about six-thirty, and, with two fires to build, arrive at
my pitchfork at half-past seven. Then I hurl hay for half
an hour, and hasten back to the house, where I am greeted
with a brigade of steaming kettles, and boiling water
enough to make coffee for a regiment.

But it is perfectly impossible to sit down to a bookless
meal; so I have a bit of biography on hand, or literary
letters, to start the day right; and how easy to spend
an hour in such company ! If only one could bring oneself
to take a proper, farmer-like fifteen minutes over ’toast
and egg — or emulate a family I know, where the house-
wife boasts that her children “never think of taking more
than five minutes to their breakfast !”

Full of literary inspiration, I then draw water for
Superb and Sunny, and rush out to milk the cow. Then
follows the deliberate business of leading the four horses
and the pony-stallion, one by one, to the trough; then
graining; then the persuading into the yard of Donlinna
and her chum, of Thalma and Elizabeth and the yearlings,
— who shrink from a cold outer world, — and of a still
more reluctant Cressy, who steps down into the yard with
a chill, majestic mien, and as slowly as if she were going

[853

THE LONE WINTER

to her doom, and who has to be guarded at the watering-
trough. Panic seizes her at the mere glimpse of a mina-
tory pony — she whirls away from the trough at once;
and they ’re all minatory, confound them, the minute they
clap an eye on Cressy! Even Bally Beg has a frown
ready for her; and yesterday she gave an actual yelp of
terror when Ocean Wave rushed straight at her with a
mouth wide open and an expression of horrid rage. So
I chaperon the poor dear; I think she likes it. She re-
laxes and goops down water wonderfully, and this morn-
ing she gave a trifle more milk. ... I shall be happy if
I find it was ponies, and not me, worrying her.

And so it is nearly ten o’clock when one sits down to
work. I think enviously of Stevenson, who, at Vailima,
wrote from six in the morning till ten ! but then he did n't
have to get nineteen breakfasts before he had his own.
In fact, he had his brought to him on a simplifying tray.
. . . Perhaps one would prefer to be thus magnificent if
one lived in Samoa; white people who go to the South
Seas — even the ones accidentally stranded on atolls — al-
ways seem to loll and be waited on. And then write books
about it afterward. . . . But Stevenson did n’t loll ; when
he was n’t writing or weeding or pulling somebody’s hair,
he was making horrible, altruistic trips (usually in hur-
ricanes) on behalf of natives; and if any one ever de-
served to loll it was he. Think of his life there in the
tropics — and the fat lives of other people!

* * *

1 : 30 p . m «

Apropos of all this, I took a great resolve and had a
bookless lunch. At 12:55 I was boiling an egg; at

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THE LONE WINTER

1 : 09, with an insensate appetite, I was boiling another.
Outrageous ! If I had had a book, I should never have
dreamed of a second egg. As it was, I devoured every-
thing visible and gazed for more. And I will not eat
a lot at noon. ... It is hard enough to make one's day
count for anything without stultifying oneself with food.
Books for me, after this!

Appetite may have had its source (partly) in an unac-
customed half-hour spent, before lunch, in the shrewd air
but blessed warm sun of the barn-yard. It was such a
glorious winter day that I decided to put Kim out with
the ponies for exercise and fun. I was sure he would do
them no harm; and he has been shut up ever since the
deep snow came. So I led him through the upper stable
and stood by to see the excitement. Into the yard he
stepped, snuffing; and, with his neck arched, stood per-
fectly still, taking the temperature, as it were, of the
staring crowd. (The geldings hate him; the mares tol-
erate him for about one second, and then rush at him
with roars of rage. So he knows what to expect!)

But the excitement was mild. Bally Beg made the
first overtures. He is barely half Kim’s size, but he
walked up boldly under the tall stallion’s nose and stood
there, cocking up an absurd eye and stamping one small
fore foot with delightful hate. Then he moved off.
Kim had merely regarded him benignly. Ocean and her
brother, two black and white wavelets of wrath, dashed
at him with terrific ears — changed their minds en route
and faded absently away. ... On a drift near by, a
young mare was standing. Kim approached her, was met
with an irate wiggle of hips, and backed precipitately
away. At this, Elizabeth, who had been observing things

[87]

THE LONE WINTER

with very big eyes, went gaily sassing up to her tall parent.
Oh! Would he, like a tom-cat, devour her? Because
she was just a baby? I moved closer — ready to leap. . . .
Or would he know his own child ? . . . And would Eliza-
beth have any feelings about him? I stared. . . . Eliza-
beth at once stretched up her nose, and humorously flicked
an infantile tail. Father seemed to be a joke rather than
otherwise! His nose was curved down to hers. Sud-
denly, opening a pink, gummy little mouth, she stuck out
her jaw sidewise and began that toothless chewing popu-
lar with the equine young, while Kim, above, gravely
scrutinized the process. It was very funny. Neither of
them dreamed who the other was. Simply, Kim behaved
like a gentleman, treating his baby visitor with courteous
seriousness, as babies should be treated. All at once
the chewing stopped. Elizabeth flicked a joyful tail again
— and danced light-heartedly off.

Then lovely Donlinna, wheeling from a fence where she
was gnawing bark, came swiftly over. Donlinna adores
a row. Ears laid back, tail magnificently extended, she
circled about the embarrassed stallion, with a slight toss
of her head, the flick of a monitory foretop, that said,
“Young man, look out!” With the most timid coyness
Kim ventured to sniff of her inciting nose — that pretty
little pointed nose, shading from chestnut to silver-gold —
when, lo ! there were the lady’s heels where her head had
been; and Kim turned away in despair.

Nobody loved him; and he strolled sadly toward the
sheds, deeply sniffing the path as he went.

But across that path stood a friend — Errands, the three-
year-old. She had adored him patiently all the autumn;
had had thrilled interviews daily in the mowing, around

[ 88 ]

the stake where he was tied ; and “Here he comes, oh, my
gracious !” said little Errands, in a palpitation, swinging
to him with eyes like expectant shoe-buttons. . . . Alas,
how often does devotion go unrequited!

“You bore me, my dear,” said the gentleman briefly;
and brushed so unceremoniously past that he took a por-
tion of her tail with him.

Errands stared in unbelief : “He could n’t have meant
it!” and placed herself imploringly in his way as he
strolled back, in his lordly fashion, from the sheds.

This time, however, he did notice her. He bent his
peerless head. “Move, minion!” he snorted; then saun-
tered witheringly by and drove his nose deep into the
trough. . . .

There was apparently nothing more to watch. A mild
circling was noticeable; Kim’s presence will be a sort
of beneficial spoon, I think, and stir them gently round.
They doze too much. . . . But I shall be on the alert.
A stallion loose means that one may hear a scream at any
moment.

Letters about the last essay are coming in. It is so
nice of people to write! I never wrote to an author;
one feels as if it couldn’t matter to them what people
think, but it does. It tremendously does. ... I ha:d a
letter to-day from an official of the United States Steel
Corporation — writing sympathetically about a yellow cat !
— and one from an Englishwoman who is raising pussies
in Australia. She described one of hers at length. It
is rather far to realize a cat — from here to Australia ; but
I tried to. . . .

[89]

THE LONE WINTER

Gli is hideously bored. I was to have gone to the vil-
lage — his favorite trip — and rashly told him so. He
kissed both my hands in joy; but it drizzled, and I did
not go. The poor chap is in despair. First he yawned
grievously, with that up-curl of the lip that means ennui,
not sleepiness; then he made a series of pretty-bows at
my feet. Later, — it was really very touching, — he came
up to me, swallowing nervously, and looking very hand-
some and bashful; gazed into my face, then out of the
window, and back into my eyes again, with the most
definite and ingratiating appeal — enough to make one get
up and go, whether or no! But I could only pat him
remorsefully and explain it was “too wet.” So he flopped
down with a despairing sigh.

Boo has settled in my lap as I write and is having the
finest face-wash of the season. I just asked him if he
wasn’t. He stopped, holding one paw in air, stared
fixedly at me, then deliberately winked one lemon-colored
eye!

It is well for me, in this solitary life, that I have this
responsible pair, a systematic cat and dog, to regulate my
proceedings; I am used to a systematic daughter; but
now Gli and Boo-boo seem trying to take her place. I
came in to-night after chores and sank into a chair. I
do not usually do that, but continue to bustle about
getting tea. So, after a moment, as, with a very guilty
sensation, I was taking the wrappers off a new magazine,
I felt a touch on my knee, and there was Goliath’s golden
head. It leaned against me ; a long nose was laid on my
lap, and eloquent eyes were searching mine.

“Oh, dear, Goliath!” I said peevishly. “What is it?
Want Missis to get up?”

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THE LONE WINTER

He gave a little jump. “That’s it!” he said joyously;
so, knowing he was in the right about it, I laid down my
seductive papers and arose. Approving golden eyes fol-
lowed me; assured that everything was as it should be,
the dog lay down on his rug again, with a sigh of con-
tent. I had fancied he might have been begging for an
extra supper-time bite; but there appeared to be nothing
whatever personal in this appeal. Nothing for his own
benefit. By some mysterious dog psychology, he knew
his mistress should n’t have been sitting there at that hour,
and it made him uneasy. He has been sound asleep ever
since. . . .

At ten o’clock I shall have another reminder. Rousing,
he comes over to my chair, and, with untold pretty-bows
and waggings, tells me it is bedtime. As before, there is
“nothing in it” for him; he stays in that same spot all
night; not the slightest reason for his bestirring himself,
except that somewhere, deep in his doggy mind, he feels
his Missis ought to go to bed. ... It is really funny.
Being sent to bed by a dog! One thinks of Nana , in
“Peter Pan,” efficiently tucking the children in their cribs.
. . . And the still funnier thing is that I usually go!
If I don’t, I fall asleep in my chair, the lamp goes out,
and I wake, cursing, at 2 a. m. . . .

* Even Boo-boo (who jumped up on my pile of manu-
script just now) was “after something” he felt ought to
be done. He patted the typewriter a bit, to be sure ; but
what he got up there for was to attract my attention. It
was the time, forsooth, when his Majesty goes out for
the evening! Presently, therefore, he jumped down,
“Blop!” murmured, “Pr-oo!” twitched his stub a few
times, and, casting come-hither glances over his shoulder,

[9i]

THE LONE WINTER

walked to the door. I obediently opened it, of course.
If you respond to an animal’s communications, it under-
stands, and tells you, more and more. Boo now follows
almost any line of simple reasoning. He inspects any-
thing I show him, glancing up at me with-obvious idea^-in
his eyes ; he agrees with me in graphic little murmurs, as
we look out the door together of a morning, about the
weather ; and, as for discussing which barn he wants to go
to for hunting purposes, he does that with the greatest
clearness, all the way out the path !

Yesterday afternoon was so radiant that I took a sud-
den resolution; putting on with a sense of unbelievable
frivolity, a corduroy sports-coat, moccasins, and gay plaid
socks, I started off for the High Knoll on snow-shoes!
I so longed to do something merely because it was beauti-
ful or amusing — not useful. (Heartbreaking to go alone
— with Somebody who so loves snow and mountains
grinding away in a beastly town; but I could at least
make a dog happy, and we went.) Goliath gamboled
around me in incredulous joy ; and the ponies cocked their
heads and stared at us.

It was more eventful snow-shoeing than usual. A light
snow had fallen on the shining crust and been blown
away in streaks and curls, making a moire pattern over
the swelling fields; the shiny streaks in the moire were
golden, the dull ones a gray-blue. Those golden places
were slippery ; and Goliath, after clutching at them, fol-
lowed meekly in his Missis’s footsteps. When we neared
the pasture fence, however, where small creatures had
wandered in and out, leaving thrilling little tracks be-
hind them, he threw caution to the winds and dashed
about, alight with the pursuer’s zeal. But footprints were

THE LONE WINTER

all he found ; sunset, in this winter world, meant bedtime
for small furry people. Not even a flick of a furtive
tail greeted us.

On the high slopes, brown flower-heads stood out above
the snow, and we saw the tracks of a thrifty field-mouse.
From one clump to another he had gone, nibbling the
infinitesimal seeds, scattering a circle of brown powder,
looping on across the hillside to other harvests — brown
goldenrod, or here and there a wide-open eye of everlast-
ing, with its yellow heart, its petals now dingy cream-
gray against the snow. In summer, one remembered how
white the everlasting showed, in horrid sheets on our
pasture turf ; now it lay but smuttily upon the drifts. . . .
The goldenrod, however, had gained in grace and signifi-
cance; the drawing of its fawn-brown sprays was rarer
than any autumn brilliance. Winter coloring always
brings one up with a gasp. Galleries of woodcuts and
winter etchings — only they ’re better than anybody’s etch-
ings! — and the air, the wonderful, sparkling air, — not
found in galleries, — brings wine into one’s soul. . . .

I wondered if my field-mouse had had wine in his
soul. His little tracks looked so gay. How could any
field-mouse make, without enjoying them, such pretty
curves and loopings through His winter gardens? . . .
Orchards, rather — like trees above his head, they were.
He would have to be a tall field-mouse to reach some
of the clumps, and I could fancy a baffled little being,
with the silkiest white shirt-front and great soft brown
eyes, squatted on tiny haunches, staring wistfully up. . . .

It grew inconveniently shining on the 'upper slopes, and
only a clutch at Gli’s ruff saved me from slipping back-
ward. Our two attaining shapes stood out for a world

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THE LONE WINTER

of valleys to see ; and Cressy had the bad taste to bellow
at us. “Baw-aww !” she mourned, a barn-yard plaint that
shot us from our airy height and landed us in the world
of practical needs. “Shut up!” I muttered. “I won’t
be bawled at — on a mountain !”

Everywhere was glory, and sky behaving as sky does
in winter sunsets. Northward, tinted clouds above a blue
and white world; in the west, gold sky and dark-blue
mountains. Later, a rose-color crept between those
mountains, washing woodlands crimson and snow-fields
pink, and painting a bold purple on the spruces; then
darkening to a smudge of fire behind the woods.

From the opposite brow Ascutney’s noble bulk again
confronted us, all clear except for one wisp of cloud laid,
like a hand, familiarly on a shoulder. I quite expected
him to shrug that majestic shoulder and say in a haughty
mountain voice, “Remove it, please!” It was a pretty,
trailing bit of cloud, rosy-pink; but for weeks he had
been so rested on by clouds, by extinguishing masses of
them, all reclining, rolling, smothering about him, that
I fancied he might be glad of a free breath once more.
Even as I looked, the hand removed itself — trailing away
into a rosy east, and far and near Ascutney scrutinized
his valleys. From his summit we had often looked across
and seen our own knoll — a mere brown button on the
rough jacket of the world, but a precious and most per-
sonal button; so now, from the button’s verge, I stared
back across the exquisite gradations of the winter patch-
work, seeking the outcropping of bold rock on which our
supper-fire is always built. There it was ! a pearl-white
blot ; and I smiled at it an intimate smile. Such a grand
place to throw things down from — and hear them crash-

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THE LONE WINTER

ing into space ! We once scaled a whole box of ginger-
snaps, sublimely, one by one, into the void. And even
sugar, emptied into tree-tops — you can hear it a long time,
rattling. . . .

As we came in sight on the top of the hill, once more
a muffled moo met us ; Cressy, vox barnyardis! Far be-
low, my bunch of tiny white roofs clustered in a smudge
of trees : sixteen little quaint shapes, all ends and gables.
Down there, my responsibilities were even more than my
roofs, I reflected, with a sigh. . . . Nineteen live furry
responsibilties were now busy in that yard, I knew,
gnawing the edges off the fences or gouging semicircles
in the pig house window-sills. Other responsibilities,
too young for window-sills, spend their time on the cor-
ners of buildings, whose timbers dwindle before one’s
eyes; some day I expect to see my venerable structures
tumbling into the yard. In summer a Shetland nibbles
endlessly, getting his dinner spear by spear; so the con-
centrated meals of winter-time leave him with a sad sense
of something lacking. Besides, he is bored. Hence the
semicircles; the scallops on fence and gate. The other
day I added such a pleasant new yellow board to the
fence by the trough ; yesterday there was little of it left
but scallops. Splinters must be a sort of pony gum. . . .
Even Elizabeth leaves her breakfast, walks gravely over
to sqme bit of selected wood, and begins to gnaw. I
wish she would find some other expression of her young
energies. It was she that did the scallops in the new
board. . . .

Even now, as Goliath and I slid hastily down the -
slopes, the breeze brought us a faint sound, as of a distant
rat, a huge and mystic rat, gnawing, maybe, at the

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THE LONE WINTER

horizon ! ... In a deep hollow we lost it, and I was glad.
I didn’t want to think of barn-yard there, for that
hollow held all the gold there was in the world ! Snow-
fields escorted it to our feet. Black woods and hem-
locks parted it from the bright gold of the sky; and
above the woods hung a great silver star. . . . What a
thing to paint ! If only thumbs did n’t freeze, outdoors.
I nearly left a thumb on a dune, once. . . .

The children were so astonished to see us; they had
heard our crunchings, and all the heads were turned up
and staring. Missis, gliding, descending from the sky;
apparet deal And they crowded by the wall. By the
shed, however, stood three motionless ponies, perfectly
graded in size. As I crunched into sight, they turned,
as by a string, their three heads ; then Elizabeth looked
back at Thalma, and Thalma at Kindness, as if to say,
“Did you ever ?” after which all three turned their heads
to stare at me again. A delicious performance. One
could just see the gossip passing along! and I slipped
quickly behind the raspberry-bushes. . . . The little imps
were commenting, I knew, on some faded, lemon-colored
riding-breeches they had n’t seen before. . . . Gli notices
clothes; he is rejoiced at boots, which mean going out,
and dejected at slippers, which don’t ; so why should not
my uncanny ponies, who always know more than is quite
convenient, have an eye for their Missis’ strange garb?

* * *

December 12.

Aha! I have defeated Superb and Sunny; defeated
them with a tenpenny nail. They got out again yester-
day; Polly jumped as we came round the comer at dusk

[96]

THE LONE WINTER

and saw a Dark Form in the path ! - It was only Sunny,
chewing apple-tree brush at the pile behind the wood-
shed — my pile, which I was to have removed; but we
gazed at him with displeasure — it was a sight too remi-
niscent of autumn. So this morning I took a hatchet
and mended the spot with venom, but with only one nail.
Of “eights” there seemed to be plenty — but only one
“ten.” Handling it like a pearl, I pounded it painfully
in; for a miracle, it went straight. After inspecting
somewhat dubiously its solitary hold, I retreated within
the house — to watch.

When morning hay was done and the transient enter-
tainments of the yard failed them, behold (as I knew
would happen) a pair of bored ponies at the fence. First
one pushed, then the other; then they both lay to and
heaved, but with no result. Pausing, they stared at each
other. Superb's ears suddenly went back; with an irri-
tated nip at her son, she shoved him out of the way.
“Let me try, stupid !” She laid her strong chest against
the rail. “ Now it will go !” I muttered. But it did n't.
That heroic tenpenny held fast; and after many trials
poor Superb, in exasperation, turned upon her beloved
son and bit and shoved and hustled him till he, losing
his temper in turn, shoved and hustled and bit back with
interest; and then, with sourest glances at each other,
they stalked morosely into their house. Poor dears!
Such a human little comedy; and a small thing to be
exultant over, but they have defeated me so often !

I have had an idea. Cressy gives such an absurd little
bit of milk at night that it occurred to me, against all
conventions of the dairy, to milk her only once a day.
It is altogether lovely. She gives no less — but all at

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THE LONE WINTER

once ! and her serenity has, if anything, increased. I am
sure she approves the system. At any rate she has never
stared* with greater bliss of absorption, at that fascinating
timber, about six inches away from her vision, which
seems at milking-time to occupy her entire soul; and
though she may sidestep slightly at some mistake of
mine she no longer gives those awful galvanic starts.
And she has marvelous cuds. One after another, I watch
them rippling up her neck. . . . Milking twice a day was
a bore; doing it once — a joy. Yes, I have really come to
like it; to sit serenely back on the stool, trilling produc-
tively into the pail yet thinking of all sorts of irrelevant
things. I even ponder words — dear, delicious, irreplace-
able words; sometimes such jolly words that I can only
long, as I sit anchored there, to write them down on the
nice, clean, literary-looking patch of white that Cressy
holds before me on her flank. . . .

This morning, by some unexplained twist, a stream
of milk clung to my left hand and ran, with unpleasant
agility, inside my cuff. I had always thought milk warm ;
but this was hot , and made one think of blood. It made
me think, too, as I dried my sleeve with a hasty handker-
chief, of the farmers who sit down to milk without wash-
ing their hands ; having been, the instant before, without
doubt virtuously cleaning the cow stable ! . . . Some men
even say they cannot milk “without milk on their hands,”
and I saw the other day an advertisement for “a dry
milker”! Oof!

He He *

Afternoon.

The snow is going pink upon the hills. Gli is hinting
for a snow-shoe tramp; but I am tired from yesterday.

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THE LONE WINTER

Seven miles on horseback in floundery snow, with a pack
of heavy books under one arm — fiction, mostly, but it
weighed! — and seven back again, with more books, and
a gory beefsteak in one pocket. Saddle-bags might have
been an idea; but I am sure they disturb Pip’s balance.
The deep soft snow is hard enough for her. But she
went like an angel. We kept meeting the snow-plows and
had to swing out into drifts to get by ; but, though I felt
her quake beneath me, she kept calm and steady and did
not plunge.

The pink is sliding so beautifully up the snowy hills.
I hate to lose it. The woodlands are red-brown, tipped
with gold. Though there is such a glory of rich light,
there is a pastel softness in the distances; shadows are
pale and delicate, the woods misty. A pearl of an after-
noon. I ’ll go out into it !

* *

Evening.

As usual, I can’t be glad enough I went. The new
snow had spoiled my lovely moirS, hut made cushioned
snow-shoeing, in which Goliath gamboled rapturously.
New snow always rouses a dog’s sense of humor! . . .
In the lane, Donlinna scrambled to see the last of us, hut
we made hastily away over the dip and fall of the
mowings, to the fringe of trees along the pasture edge,
and then a straightaway to the knoll. We were in haste;
color was getting away from us so fast. Funny, to be
f ha sing a vagrant sunset. The last rosy rays were slid-
ing up the mountains ; we could not climb fast enough to
be in them, but it was lovely to be getting up into more
light all the time. Reversing the day. . . . Color lay in

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oddly geographical sections: gold in the west, apricot in
the south, to the east a misty rose. A mistiness, too, lay
over purples and blues. . . . “Chinese white, my dear,”
I said, instinctively shutting one eye; “a thin wash, and
be quick about it!” . . . For my hands felt suddenly
empty. One misses one’s early job. Fingers get habits —
have memories of their own. So I stood there, absurdly
longing.

My field-mouse had made a set of brand-new tracks;
here and there they etched themselves, following the
brown flowers. It seemed as if uncommon spirits had
seized their little maker, for sometimes he had leaped a
yard, the festive mite! There was no other track pur-
suing; the leaps must have been mere joy. At one spot
on the summit of the knoll, a row of small frozen humps
were elevated above the crust — magnificent memorial of
the little fellow’s wanderings before the storm. He, and
he alone, had trodden down the new, wet snow; around
those important footmarks the winds had shorn away the
looser drift, the cold had frozen them, and lo, as monu-
ments to his activity, these icy, field-mouse eminences!
looking so oddly permanent and prehistoric on the big
brow of that knoll.

Glancing up, one was dazzled by the western gold. . . .
A howk beside me ; and there was Gli with his stick of
the day before, all tooth-marks. He placed it carefully
on one of my snow-shoes, then backed away with shining
eyes. As I flung it down a slope his cries of rapture
batted among the mountains; I doubt if dog was ever
heard so far. Not only mad barking near by, but a
frantic dog echo bounding in the woods below.

From the north a great roll of mist, a thick, round
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THE LONE WINTER

mass, was coming ; its finger stretched away up the valley ;
and suddenly, far in the gray-blue distance, grew a fiery
lake ! A long, rose-colored mirage, winding among
mountains ... a sunset beam must have fallen on the
stream of mist.

Laughing, tumbling, we made hasty way downward. A
lone clump of brown goldenrod had its tufted heads
fringed with white frost-crystals, hanging shaggily; each
seed-vessel had flowered into a silver frost-chrysanthe-
mum! It was only on this one, erect clump that these
assistant blooms were in perfection; the more drooping
ones were quite bereft of crystals, their fringes having
been shaken off by our small nibbler, and their brown
petals lying thick upon the snow. . . . Frost-chrysanthe-
mums did not appeal to Goliath; but, oh! his feverish
interest in the mouse ! Together, we tracked him to the
crevices of a big rock — a lovely rock, with slices of rose-
quartz showing; and after digging and digging in the in-
terfering snow, Goliath snuffed his heart out at those
odorous cracks.

Gray veils were dropping now ; only behind the woods
a little gold was shining; the ghost of our evening
star, and also the threadiest thread of a new moon, not
silver yet, but a gleaming buff. Why is it that the first
young dimnesses of anything are so enchanting? I tried
to show the collie that new moon, but he could n't see it.
I must get “moon” into his vocabulary, somehow.

* * *

December 13.

This morning being very warm, and I in a gay mood,
I was warbling out of our bath-room window — which is
a dear little casement, unnecessarily romantic — that highly

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THE LONE WINTER

historic and respectable ballad, “Charlie Is My Darling,”
for the benefit of Superb and Sunny in the hen-yard be-
low. I thought they looked bored. At first, they stared
up in horror; then, at the third “darling,” what was my
amusement to see Superb back suddenly down upon her
child, and gently but firmly kick him within the house!
After which she herself came quickly out and gazed
greedily for more ! Did she consider my beautiful song
unfit for the ears of youth? or was it monopoly she was
after? At any rate, in the sheltering house Sunny had
to stay while mother, leaning over the fence, absorbed the
whole tale.

A most pictorial fracas, this morning, getting Cressy
out of the barn. Driblets of hay were scattered outside
the rear door, where in my haste — it was raining streams
— I had dropped them; so, all the while I was milking,
sounds of squabbling came in through the cracks. The
ponies in the yard had just finished their breakfast; but
that didn’t prevent them from competing desperately
over those driblets. There would come a rush, a scurry,
and the sound of defeated feet going off in the distance.
I knew so well how the disappointed ones looked, stand-
ing drooping in the rain ; so when I rose and hung up the
pail, I took down a fork and opened the door. Sure
enough, there they were in a row, entirely blocking up
Cressy’s path; my dear Donlinna, just then, was in pos-
session of the fragments. She flung up her head, chew-
ing, and eyed me with a thrilled and rapturous eye.

“Yes! darling,” I murmured. “Marvelous to discover
a spear to eat, is n’t it ? Run along, all of you. Shoo !”

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And I flourished the fork. Donlinna, with a curvet, van-
ished obediently round the corner of the pig house ; but
the ring of pony candidates pressed closer.

“Oo ! she ’s going to let us in ! . . . Oo-oo ! ! she ’s left
the door open a crack !”

“Go away, pests !” I cried, again beating the air with
my fork; but noses advanced on me from every side.
So I went in. “I ’ll make a way for you, Cressy, old
girl,” I muttered, unfastening her; “just you keep up
your courage; that’s all!” so she swung round, and I
opened the door with a yell. Alas ! Donlinna was back
in her place again, and behind her a maddening surge of
candidates. Cressy, filling the narrow doorway in front
of me, was striving desperately to retreat; so all I could
do was lay my shoulder against her flank, and push, and
yell; and, just as I thought (I had never tried to push
a cow before!) that she was coming back in spite of me,
to my amazement she gave a mighty lunge and leap, clove
those candidates asunder, and made for the watering-
trough with a stout bellow of wrath. Good for Cressy!
She drank with unusual earnestness; after which she
stalked off, nodding a dripping but determined nose, and
took up her stand in the shed. The very best and most
coveted shed, too; and in its doorway her two crescents
of horns stood militantly out. She had evidently made up
her mind to be bullied no longer.

A sou’easter is sweeping against the windows; I can
imagine, along our bit of sandy shore at Cotuit (which
we deeply love), how the surf is raging. I wish I were
there to see and hear it. . . . Ascutney is banked deep
in heavy clouds; and across our white valley the nearer
hills dodge in and out of the mists. I do love to watch

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a flying mist ! The rain has a slatting sound. The very
fury of it is inspiriting. Our telephone is out of order,
as usual ; but at its last gasp this noon the express office
notified me that there are two ponies waiting down there
— in crates, poor dears. They will have to be taken to a
stable, and Dolly and I will go down for them to-morrow.
Roads will be fearful. After this rain, imagine the soft-
ness — and the slumps !

* * *

Evening.

The rain has stopped. I have just been to look out
at the mountains, and there was a misty star struggling
through clouds. The clouds were rushing. The wind
smells like clearing, too ; and, oh, the sound of the brooks !
Little and big, they are all roaring ; bound, in a fury, for
the sea.

* * *

December 15.

Up early, this morning; a clear dawn sky, and a glow
of burnt-orange behind the woods; the hills deeply blue,
and a breathless calm on the snow-fields. The sun was
beautifully slow about rising. Pitchfork in hand, I
dodged in and out of the various barns, dashing to doors,
horribly afraid of losing anything; but the glow bright-
ened deliberately, as did the blue overhead; and soon a
mass of cloud above the western woods began to take
on rose-color and change its grays into purples. The
high, snowy slopes, the crimsoning woods, and this sailing
wonder! I dashed up the mowing lane so fast to see it
that Goliath, much excited, dashed with me. He thought

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it was invasions of some sort, to make his Missis rush in
that strange direction before breakfast! And the crust
let us both woefully through. But up there in the white
mowings I could see snow-laden roofs, the two smokes
blowing, the tall balsam pointing to heaven; and to the
east blue Pisgah, a round, snow-topped hill, had all the
glory behind him, and was guarding the coming of the
sun. The great cloud above the woods was now brilliant
rose, and streamed slowly southward, lighting the snowy
hills beneath it.

And still Pisgah hid the sun! and grew brighter blue
every moment, till, pop! and the edge of a bright thing
shot up. Soon, a molten ball, it stood on Pisgah’s profile ;
a pink light stole across the fields, and crept into the
woods among the tree trunks, where blue shadow-trees at
once appeared.

The high knoll, too, was brilliant pink — as pink as any
Alp! Goliath tried hard to find the sun; he looked and
looked — up into a wild-cherry-tree, down the lane, into
the rocky barn-yard itself, for what his mistress was in-
citing him to see. His nose worked, but he could n’t find
it. If it had only been a chipmunk in the depths of the
wall, now; but that bright thing! One took that for
granted.

Leaving the sun to take care of himself, Goliath and
I careered indoors. It is so jolly of those tea-kettles
to be boiling when one comes in ! The columns of steam
from their two noses look so prosperous and gay, the
sound is fraught with so many cheerful possibilities.
Soon a most ineffable coffee smell was about, the single,
stately egg of the morning gravely bounding in the ket-
tle, and, by the fiery door of the chunk-stove in the dining-

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room, I was speedily making toast. A slice of bread, pre-
sented to that doorway of beautiful color, had no long
doubts about what color it would turn; and glorious,
swift, wood-fire toast it was. Then the pan with its
crust of cream came out from the pantry, and the clotted
yellowness was transferred to a squat Doulton jug, itself
of a creamy color, with bouquets of little flowers; and
one sat down, with the fire at one’s back, before a center-
piece of hemlock tips with tiny cones dangling, to break-
fast.

It was hard to eat quickly, and dash out again; but I
did — in spite of Stevenson at my elbow. Perhaps because
of him. For I had to get everybody ready for town —
that is, ready to be left so that I could go to town ! — and
finally scrub and array my Polly for the trip.

Roads were slippery, and so we went slowly, with time
to watch cloud masses behind hemlock-crowned hills, and
to revel in the rushing of the Kedron. It had the look
of a glacial stream, pale blue-green and very clear ; and it
gathered in pools, and hurried away in riotous rapids,
and dived darkly beneath overhanging spruces, filling the
valley with sound. . • • After disentangling the new
ponies from their crates, I was glad to be back beside its
music again, leading the older pony, and letting the baby
navigate for herself. She is a real baby — only four
months old; she plunged abjectly into drifts if we met
a team, then came galloping after us with pathetic hoo-
hoos . Such a cunning, little baby gallop! They were
glad to climb our hill and see barns, and smell hayey
smells, and be greeted with loud shouts by Superb and
Sunny, from whom they ’d only been parted a few weeks.

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December 1 6.

Boo-boo is getting uncanny. He has always been a
beggar at meals ; but he has acquired a new system. After
ordinary blandishments have failed,— planting elbows in
one's lap, jogging one's arm with an affectionate nose-
rub, or clutching the table with an imploring white ball
of a fist, — he turns away with a twitch of his stub and
makes for the hall door. There he sits down, his fat back
turned, looking earnestly up the stairs ; and unless I in-
stantly call him back, he remarks “Pr-oo?" and scoots
up-stairs, well knowing that any reward in reason will
be offered him if he will only come down and be a so-
ciable pest again. If this device fails, what does the imp
do but come bumping down-stairs again, walk over to a
bit of wall-paper by the sideboard and, stretching his
paws up it, prepare to have a glorious claw-sharpening!
This never fails to “bring down the house" ; with shrieks
and promises, he is recalled ; and with what grace he then
lets himself down, coming benignly over to be fed, and
hugged, and petted, for his sins !

The new ponies are having a hard time of it with my
beloved savages in the barn-yard. I was so sorry for
them last night that I invited them into the cow barn to
have supper. Queen was to have come in, anyway, to eat
grain with Elizabeth; but after I had hayed the hustling
yard ponies, and led Lassie over to the door of their
house to join them, she hesitated so pitifully on the
threshold, visualizing the awful things in store for her,
that I led her away again. She and Queenie are so
modest and untried among my frowning veterans, that I
hate to have this pleasant bloom brushed from them.

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THE LONE WINTER

So I left her and Queen to have a peaceful night to-
gether, munching their united hay out of a cow stanchion.
Thalma, the belligerent, was safely tied in the calf stalls
beyond; and blithe Elizabeth careered where she would.
If she wandered out of sight around a partition, Thalma
was perfectly serene — a different temperament from poor
Superb's, who nearly knocked the stable down the night
I tried the same arrangement with her and Sunny, bel-
lowing, beating the wall with her feet. I have been won-
dering which sort, in the end, makes the better mother.
I don't believe, myself, in the invariable efficacy of the
worrying parent !

* * He

Evening.

I am still putting off my pig. Still casting skim-milk
upon the snow. It is a fearful sin. Every time I see it
go “swash” into a drift, and the drippings, so yellow and
edible-looking, run guiltily down, I think of all the busi-
ness men's lunches I am wickedly throwing away; for
have we not all read how a raisin sandwich, aided by one
glass of skim-milk, makes an ideal lunch for the brain-
worker? . . . And as to how many glassfuls my drifts
by this time contain, I should prefer not to think, when
what they get is pailfuls !

But what is one to do? My neighbors have all the
“skim” they can use ; Ocean Wave drinks a panful every
day; and, as for Goliath, he now backs swiftly away at
the mere offer of a drink of milk. Nothing for it but the
drifts 1 Unless I can make up my mind to one more ani-
mal, and acquire that dreaded pig. Not that I don’t
esteem pigs — as one esteems the little understood; and I
have had one pig, Belinda, of whom I grew very fond.

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THE LONE WINTER

She was what the hired man called “a right smart shote,”
plump and lively and immaculately pink and white; and
when the stable was being cleaned, and the window in her
pen was open, Belinda’s investigating head looked out, and
her little eyes, with their long white eyelashes, winked
kindly at me as she waved her nose. “Hoc!” said Be-
linda, encouragingly ; “hoc, hac! . . . Hujus? hujus?
. . . Huic-huic-huic !”

At which classic salute I always waved my shovel and
replied, “Morning, B’linda !” Sometimes I even took the
trouble to walk over and rub the top of her head ; though
I never quite liked to do that. I used the shovel handle.
It was a clean head — for a pig; one could see the nice
pink skin showing through the silvery hair, but hard as a
board, and so bristly as to send shivers to one’s very
bones. There is something illogically violent, too, about
a pig’s nose; it is eternally in motion, and, while appar-
ently enjoying your caresses, it may suddenly rise and
smite you — with no provocation, except the eternal fact
that pigs and humans, after all, are not meant to mix.

For all my affection for her, therefore, our congeniality
was astonishingly slight. One can't do very much with
an armor-plated animal that has to be petted with shovels !
Besides, I never knew what she meant by those grunts
of hers — and it worried me. Belinda grunted a great
deal; but, however eloquently her head was thrust forth
from that hole, she might have been a hippopotamus fresh
from the jungle or a female immigrant jabbering along
the street with bundle and shawl, for all the understand-
ing I felt toward her. Now, one hates to feel barriers
between oneself and a pig — one’s towering intellect should
overlook them ; a pig, to a human, should be translucent ;

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THE LONE WINTER

and one’s only consolation, as with uncongenial people, is
to conclude that it is entirely the fault of the other
person. . . .

It is so different with the ponies. I pass one of them
in the yard. Our eyes meet ; I smile involuntarily. I say
carelessly, “Hello, imp!” or some other disrespectful
greeting, and — it runs after me and shoves its head under
my arm ! Our understanding is perfect.

* * *

December 20.

Alas, another day gone in household industry, that
demon which, when it seizes me, whirls me whither I
would not go. Especially when work, in a good light by
the window, is patiently waiting. Not a syllable did I
produce, merely domestic glitterings. They are very nice,
to be sure; I admire my two beaming kettles, and my
stove edges like mirrors; I miss, pleasantly, the wreath
of woodsy, licheny fragments that is apt to adorn the
floor beside the big brass pot, the delightful but tippy
receptacle in which I keep chunk-wood. Also I cooked
up' a week’s supply of everything. Living alone, though
one may try to have a balanced ration and all, one is
casual about food. Balancing for one’s own benefit seems
so absurd! . . . Cooking and shining up at once, how-
ever, is a triumph to the spirit and brings one out jolly
at the end. It ’s a funny thing; I can, and do, with per-
fect cheer, spend no end of time on the animals’ meals,
meals served with muscle and strenuousness in exhilarat-
ing cold barns; but finessing around in a comfortable,
warm house, dealing out little messes in plates and cups,
fills me with depression.

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THE LONE WINTER

In fact, I ’ve been rather in the depths for days. Partly
with headache, partly with an enormous sense of per-
sonal insufficiency because I can’t, and never shall be able
to, write in the tongue of the Highland Scot ! (I ’ve been
at ; Stevenson again.) An entirely unfair advantage on
his part. There he had the heather — a monopoly of it;
he had “the moorland where the whaups are calling” ; any
chance character of his could mention that the night was
“pit-mirk” — and send shivers down your spine. . . .
(Whereas a person nowadays has to say “pitch-dark,”
with no effect whatever. Not a shiver.) So I went
drearily about my barn-yard jobs, quoting bitterly:

. . and if he can hurt Ardshiel ... If he can pluck
the meat from my chieftain’s table, and the bit toys out
of his children’s hands, he will gang singing hame to
Glenure!” . . . Gang singing hame to Glenure! — the
purest poetry. And all because of that witching “gang”
and “hame.” ... It ’s not fair !

But a strange meal, composed of dry bread, grape-
fruit, and “Bill SewalTs Story of T. R.,” suddenly cured
me. Chiefly the T. R. part of it ; though abstinence has
its virtues. ... It has been a queer day. My morning
went for little except a successful filling of the waste-
basket, and this afternoon I rode six miles in a cold wind
to call on a supposedly lonely family, and found them
gaily entertaining company and not lonely in the least!
Sunday is the great calling day in the country; I should
have remembered that. Then the work horses are at lib-
erty to have their “light harnesses” on, and farm-houses
are alight with sociability. As it was, Polly and I stayed
but a short time and rode home by moonlight, a thing to
marvel at upon the snowy mountains. The sky was filled

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THE LONE WINTER

with puffy clouds, among which the moon sailed, making
rainbow colors and throwing a flying light on silvered
hills or darkened valleys. The wind had fallen. Shadow-
branches were thick on the road. Once, in the woods, an
owl screamed. Polly stopped and raised her head at that ;
even Goliath, pausing beside us, lifted one fore foot,
sniffed the night air, and shivered. . . .

Our house, with its moon-lit roofs, looked sweeter than
ever; in my mind I lighted one or two of its windows.
The evening star should have been in its notch above
the woods, but we were too late for that; the whole blue
sky was flashing with bold silver stars. . . . Inside the
barn, dusk and moonlight mingled so romantically that I
unsaddled without a lantern. It is fun to do that. You
touch something warm and wonder, “Is that your ear,
Pip?” You feel delicately among straps, finally, with a
sense of triumph, stripping the bridle off without pulling
too much hair. I am used to uncinching without looking,
though once I mistook a hip for a wither, reached back-
ward for the rear of the saddle, and found I had firm
grip of a handful of tail-bone ! This frightened me almost
as much as it did Polly, who is not used to being grabbed
in wrong places and bolted into her stall with a snort of
horror.

Next day I had to go to town. The “sleddin’ ” was
harder than bones; my sleigh bumped and jarred, and
Dolly, having lolled in a barn-yard since the last trip, was
none too gleg in the gaits. . . .

At last, under a pale-gray sky, over pale-gray roads,
beside pale-gray fields with bunches of sooty woods de-
fining them, we jingled deliberately home. It was lantern-

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THE LONE WINTER

time, and we had no lantern ; this we hoped no legal per-
son would observe. Legal persons must have been at
their suppers, for no objections were encountered, and
Dolly, panting, landed me at length in front of our shed.
I tried to induce her to turn the sleigh around, but it
seemed to stick, and she lay down on the shafts instead;
she lay down about six times, first on one shaft and then
on the other. She did it gracefully; but I set my bag
of eggs on a drift and got out to help her (Dolly loathes
doing things in snow) and found her fairly trembling
with exertion and distaste. So I put her solicitously to
bed and backed it in myself. There were only Christmas-
cards in that sleigh, but it did seem heavy. I had to see-
saw it.

* * *

December 29.

Christmas week, and my child is here, making every-
thing gay with her young ardors. So wonderful, to have
two people dashing round the barn with pitchforks ! So
brilliant an occasion, to be shoveling paths with the snow
flying from a second, cooperative shovel ! And above all
it is thrilling to set out on the road with the rhythm of
another horse step beside one. Polly feels it as much
as I do, and foams with competition. Her knees fly
nearly to her chin; and I hold her in for fear she will
tire herself out. The Maharajah is delighted to have his
little Missis here; his nose is perpetually over the edge
of his box, looking for her; and when saddled he stands
with a proud eye, waiting her word. . . .

On Christmas night a brilliant full moon rose, shining
on the crust. It was twelve below zero. The rolling hills

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THE LONE WINTER

were like a silver sea. Moonlight gleamed on their tops
and made shining paths. The belts of woods were black
as ink. Riding home from a festive dinner at the Chicka-
dee's, we gazed, though with teeth chattering; the horses
galloped along the lighted roads, but even that exhilarating
motion could not keep out the bite of the cold, and we
turned gladly down the path to the barn. Before I could
dismount, Polly quickly steered me to the watering-
trough, with her little chivalrous air of “Oh, do let me
save you the trouble of doing this later!" . . . But she
bumped her nose on it! It was frozen hard; and the
fence beside it shivered into bits !

Not a pony was to be found. They had had a k^cking-
bee by the fence, laid it flat, and departed. The crust was
hard; they could go anywhere.

“Elizabeth — out at this hour!" I cried.

“And Donny — she 'll freeze !" mourned Babs. The
moon, though big, was still low above the hills; so we
brought a lantern and scurried through the orchards
(magically beautiful, with their purples against shadowy
silver). There we discovered a stream of tracks on the
hard crust.

It was dreadfully slippery on that crust ; we slid along,
holding the lantern at the tracks, and feeling every sword-
sharp breath of air a stab in our hearts. . . . Would
Elizabeth’s little round furriness withstand this bitter
night? So we hurried perilously over the slopes, where
birch clumps sketched enchanting shadows, and the moon,
soaring aloft, shone brightly down. The dark blue sky
was thick with stars, the Milky Way solid with them;
even the needless glory of the northern lights flared
tongues of greenish fire upward behind the mountains.

[i 14]

THE LONE WINTER

A night of celebration above, as well as on earth ! and in
the midst of such beauty our anxious quest seemed a
bad dream. ... It was Elizabeth’s first Christmas! and
we had brought her home a lump of sugar tied up with
red ribbon. . . .

At the lane, tracks went in both directions, one stream
into the dark woods. So we darted into a birchy hollow.
Tracks were everywhere now, and round dig-places in the
snow, where a hoof had scraped for food. We were both
escorted by columns of steaming breath; “ ‘Valleys where
the people went about like smoking chimneys’ — remem-
ber?” I panted, holding on to my nose, which seemed of
a strange numbness. . . .

The bushy lane turned here, and in its shadows we
perceived clusters of deeper blackness, from which a cer-
tain breathing quality arose . . . and then somebody very
kindly sneezed !

"I ’ll get over \he fence,” whispered my child, with
strategy learned of old, “and you go back to the turn and
shoo ’em in when you hear ’em coming! I’ll yell if I
need you !”

Before I could even nod assentingly (as an obedient
parent should) she was bobbing away. I dashed desper-
ately back. If they got there before I did, — and if the
wrong pony was leading, — all was lost! They would go
tearing downhill into the woods. ... If steady little black
Fad had been with them, she would swerve into the home
field ; but, alas ! Fad was now far away, dragging a cart
in Connecticut, and Ocean Wave, the swift and tireless,
was leader of the gang. Mischief is the spice of Ocean’s
life. I could just see her dashing the whole crowd down
into those shadowy depths, like the swine that dashed into

[ii5]

THE LONE WINTER

the sea. Only it needs no especial devil to inspire my
darling children ; once get them in a mob, and out jump a
dozen busy little devils ready for use — devils that a pony
ordinarily keeps tucked away in the back side of his clever
little head. And that pitch into the woods was a divine
dash-place, geographically — and psychologically ; being
both a lovely downhill and the exact opposite of the direc-
tion in which they knew — ad nauseam! — they ought to go.
How often had they galloped along that very lane and
shot piously in at the opening ! And Shetlands, like peo-
ple, can’t bear being good too long.

Awaiting the onrush, I listened intently. All was still.
The moon shone down through the trees, and lay in pat-
terns on the frozen snow. Tiny sounds stole into the
night stillness : a rustle, a crisping of crust, a frost-snap
from a tree, the fritter of a dry beech-leaf ; and, behind
all these, the slow rise and fall of a murmur, a vast, slow
murmur as from forgotten winds. . . . But from up the
lane — silence. I grew anxious. Had they eluded my
questing child and careered away? Should I stick to my
post, or run and help?

Just then a crunching came to my ears ; the crunching
became a crashing, and round the corner of the birches
dashed an agitated black mass, diving into the hollow,
surging up over its crest, and roaring straight at me in
full flight — a laneful of wildness ! The woods for them !
and midnight, and freedom, and frozen ears — hooray!
Into the slivers of moonlight came a gallant blink of
white ; two silver knees flashing, an ink-black mane wav-
ing — Ocean Wave, simply going it!

“Hi !” I yelled, swinging my lantern in mad circles, and
dancing furiously from one side of the lane to the other.

[n6]

THE LONE WINTER

Just as I caught the flash of Ocean’s eye, and thought she
was going straight through me, she swerved past — into
the home field. A clot of others followed, galloping their
best, swinging on desperate small legs around the sharp
turn; then a single pony, shining golden against the
shadow — Marigold ; after her a string of slower yearlings,
breathing loudly; then Queenie, a little black galloping
blot on the moon-lit snow ; and last — not to be hurried —
the mare Thalma, at a laborious trot, with Elizabeth be-
side her. Finally, out of the darkness grew two attached
but wrestling forms, about which expostulations hovered.
“Stop, Superb! . . . Superb, don’t be an ass!” and my
child appeared, mightily restraining an agonized parent
whose son had run on without her. Superb was knit into
complete curves, her whole self a tense half-circle of sus-
pense. Once safely in the field we let her go — and a
chestnut streak shot into the valley, then up among the
frisking mob of home-goers. We smiled at each other.
Then our faces sobered.

“My! this cold bites!” muttered Babs.

“Got any nose?” I asked anxiously.

“Not much !” said she cheerfully, clasping it in a mit-
tened hand. “.You got any?”

In front of us were roofs and cuddling orchards; and
to-night a single light shone out— that light I always
longed to see. It made the whole picture; . . . even if
one knew it was candlesticks on a side-table under my
child’s portrait! . . . And the softness of the orchard-
darks, above clear lines of silver fields — oh, dear! what
a thing to draw — at twelve below zero, and ten o’clock
at night! Things are always gorgeous just when it ’s im-
possible to get at them. . . .

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THE LONE WINTER

By the door stood a huddle of forms, meekly awaiting
us. As we buttoned the door upon them, a sudden shock
struck me.

“Where ’ s Kindness ?” I gasped.

“And Denikina!” breathed Babs.

We had forgotten them completely! After a rueful
glance at the freezing hills, we looked at each other and
burst into shouts of mirth. Seizing the lantern, we set
off, and nearly a mile from home came upon them stand-
ing disconsolately before a gray wayside barn, its front
brilliant silver in the moonlight. Donlinna sprang to
meet us.

“Bless you, Missises !” she wickered, running her nose
into my coat-front.

“Why didn’t you come home then, idiot?” I said,
crossly, petting her; and started to put a halter on her.
None of that ! With a bound and a flourish she and her
tributary pony were off, tails up, for home. Toiling in
their wake, we had just one glimpse of them flying along
the moon-lit lane. . . .

At exactly n : 15 by the kitchen clock we sat down to
a Christmas supper. How marvelous the fire-heat felt;
how joyfully the kettles steamed ! Which was the greater
luxury, to bask or to eat, we did not know. The candles
gleamed among the holly; Boo-boo purred like a happy
cello; and Goliath, on the hearth-rug, stretched out with
a groan of content.

* * *

December 31.

We have put Kim in the hen-house, and Superb and
Sunny with the yard ponies. Kim needed a yard of his
own, and Superb needed society. She was growing very

[ns]

THE LONE WINTER

blue in the sole company of her child, and spent her time
peering over the fence toward the barn-yard, not exer-
cising at all. There were kicking-bees at first, but things
are now calming down, and the four new ponies form a
sort of phalanx of defense, trailing around together. Kim
is the one now suffering from solitude ; but it won't hurt
him. He must expect to be solitary. He was no further
good to stir up the ponies, they were so used to him, —
Superb is far more of a success in that line ! — but his head
is now perpetually over the bars, and he yearns for his
ladies, kick him though they did. I passed him, the other
day, and stopped to commiserate : “ ‘Alone, alone, — all,
all alone, — alone in a wide, wide' hen-house, Kimmie
iear?" I inquired; and he wriggled his nostrils entreat-
ingly. In mere desperation he dashes round , his yard a
spreat deal, which is very good for him ; in the barn-yard,
if he moved at all, some officious lady would rush up and
i>ite him — and he would subside again into a sluggish
heap. In winter he is really too gentle for his own good ;
ill the ponies bully him; but in the spring, behold a
iappled dragon, with green fire shooting from his eyes,
issuing forth on two legs only, and bellowing as he
:omes! He tapped my shoulder once — slightly; but I
lave never walked in front of him since. As my expres-
sive neighbors say, “It ain't safe!"

* * *

January 2.

We have had to put calf-chains on Kimmie’s fence, to
eep him in ; in his disgust he began to push everything
have and spent one entire day smashing fastenings, then
unning joyfully across the yard to join Bally Beg (who

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THE LONE WINTER

slips through the barn-yard fence regularly every morn-
ing). When Kim found he could not smash the chains,
he leaned on them as hard as he could and bawled at us
in despair. Our satisfaction was intense. Blessed be calf-
chains !

* * *

January 5.

The sun rose this morning in most indecent haste. On
clear days it is one of my amusements to set my watch
by the sun ; that is, by the time the paper says it rises at
sea-level, plus the presumable interval it takes him to
climb our mountain tops. It is a source of great discus-
sion between Babs and me, as to how long he would be
in getting up those two thousand or more feet.

But to-day, as I was dressing, with one eye out of my
eastern window, the interval seemed no more than a
blink. The color had been wonderful, clear green and
gold, with a golden shaft flaring up over a sash of lazy
purple cloud ; and when the gold behind Pisgah grew
blinding bright I ran to look at Ascutney. It is his ex-
hibition moment of the whole day; as the sunrise stole
through his valley, he stood there amethyst and rosy-gold
against a horizon of apple-green. Other hills near him
were bright blue.

And then the sun popped up. In one instant the color
sank. Long Hill grew cold; the forests blackened; the
snow-fields lost their glow ; as for Ascutney, he was now
not even a decent daytime blue, but a dismal, washed-out
hue like a blue garment that has been washed with chem-
icals. After one beam, the sun had retired into the purple
cloud; and a very horrid-looking world he left us. On

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THE LONE WINTER

kind mornings, I inform bald Pisgah reproachfully, glory
stayed about until one’s hair was done and one could
rush out into the freshness and the glow and seize a
pitchfork and breathe it all in ; and here the extinguishing
had happened while I was buttoning my blouse !

Later, the sun came grudgingly out of his cloud; but
it was a whole hour before Ascutney had his blue again.
T his was impressive, because in all our years here I had
never seen the reliable old thing (we call him our barom-
eter) behave so. Except at a cold twilight, he always
looks nice, and then it’s a gray you expect. Night is
coming on ; and the dear can’t help it. Under moonlight,
even, — instead of being half invisible, — he is an ineffable
tint (the sort that Willard Metcalfe can do, best of all) ;
and if anything could wash him out it would be a moon.
The moon does such awful things to harbors ; everything
vanishes in a sort of gray dance, and you can’t pick up
your moorings if you try. . . .

This very moment I glanced out to see how Ascutney
was. Blue as the sea, and an edge sharp enough to cut
with!

* * *

January 7.

My Babs has gone. Two whole weeks of luxury and
laughter; how strange our hilltop seems ! The gleam has
vanished; a vivid dulness settled down. . . .Even the
bams seem vacant. But the animals have been uncom-
monly nice. Goliath follows me everywhere. Boo-boo
was early at his window, and quite frantic with cordial-
ity. He even escorted me to Kim’s yard and helped give
him a drink of water — and Boo does n’t care for water-

[121]

THE LONE WINTER

buckets, besides being a little wary of Kim, who puts
down an exploring nose and snuffs all along a person’s
spine in a way that even a fearless rabbit-pussy does n’t
like. It makes his orange hair fairly crinkle ! But to-day
he put two round white paws up on the rail on which I
rest the bucket, and purred gloriously right up into the
enemy’s nose, rubbing his head against my elbow as he
did so. I was touched at this attentiveness. Was Boo,
too, feeling a lack? ... Or did he, perhaps, feel that I
was feeling one?

When I entered the bam, two grand whinners rose
from Queen and Elizabeth ; Elizabeth, from the platform
of her mother’s stall, staring at me with intent, baby eyes,
her furry feet far apart, her silvery nose tucked down
upon her chest — a sight to melt the heart. Donlinna, with
sudden ears of hate, let out a scathing heel in Queen’s
direction, then whirled around to me with demanding
love in her eyes. I departed into the hay barn — at which
a pandemonium of pawing set up ; Thalma’s hasty knock,
Superb’s furious but delicate staccato, an intermezzo of
light pecks from the yearlings, and, under all, Donny’s
big thump. Cressy, for her part, did a fine job of horn-
work on her wooden window ; and what a face of longing
met me when I let it down ! Lunging forward, she mum-
bles all over her beloved breakfast, seizing a huge mouth-
ful, then trying to surround all the rest of it, and giving it
fond dints with her nose.

Down-stairs, there was an epidemic of mad sneezes —
they always sneeze when they are hungry; Polly and
Dolly had the most awful colds ! “Hucky -chow! Hucky-
choo- 00-00 ! Er-r-r — ker -chow! ... . Er-rr-r — k'choo!”
The blessed dears ! I had to hug them both. The Maha-

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THE LONE WINTER

rajah finds it beneath his dignity to sneeze; he trots
silently round his box, then shoots great eyes at me over
the edge. But there was a pained look in those eyes this
morning. Not the happy light of the past days. She
hadn’t come to see him. ... He knew. As he ate his
oats, there was no more joyous dribbling over the rim
of his stall ; his head would come up, but go soberly back
again. I bit my lip.

“Oh, Pud!” I murmured, and buried my face in his
neck, so that Polly, looking across, whinnered jealously
at us.

Just before sunset I put on snow-shoes and sought my
favorite cure-all — the high knoll. Outside the back door
I was considerably cheered by the sight of Kim and Don-
linna doing some long-distance flirting — Kim peering
coyly round the henhouse, and Donlinna, from the barn-
yard gate, making all sorts of delusive sweet ears at him
and tossing a seductively fibbing little nose. (I am en-
tirely in love with that poetic nose, myself !)

“If it were n’t for these disgusting chains, beloved-

est ” remarked the gentleman, ogling valiantly; and

“Darling! how I should love to kick you!” retorted the
lady sweetly.

She even tried those eyes on me, as I marched by.
“Donny,” I said sternly, “you are a siren. Nothing less!
You ’ll. grow a sea-green foretop, one of these days — and
sit on a rock and comb it !”

It was the easiest of snow-shoeing, an inch of light
feathery snow on crust; and the winged feeling of
liberation did not fail me. Distances were clear — brutally
clear; all the mountain world was in shadowy blue and
white except the eastern hills, whose tops were rosy-gold

[123]

THE LONE WINTER

in the last light. Ascutney was a bracing bronze, with
cobalt shadows. There was everywhere more gold than
pink. Bursting through the line of bushes into the pas-
ture, I caught again the triangle of composition that al-
ways takes my breath — so tiny, so old-mastery, it is ; one
bright pink hill, one long blue shadow, one rosy woodland
— framed by a white slope on one side, on the other by
purple maples. A bit of priceless background from an
old master — only fresher, unvarnished, bathed in the clar-
ity of winter.

Reaching the knoll-top, and exulting in the glory still
sliding up the eastern hills, I looked westward and saw
a transparent wash of crimson creeping among the Green
Mountains ; after one glance at it I turned — and the east-
ern world had gone cold and gray ! . . . This was a com-
muting sunset, too ! and when I swung again to the moun-
tains, behold, their crimson had vanished ; they were gray
against the usual gold. A day of lightning change.
Everything was hard ; and I trudged disconsolately to the
farther edge of the knoll, where such a violent “Oh!”
escaped me that Goliath looked up into my face. “Snow
mountains, boy!” I whispered; and he gazed attentively
about him, doubtless expecting to see a nice little one,
on all fours, scuttling over the landscape, — that being my
dear dog’s conception of anything to get excited about
outdoors !

But it was a Popocatepetl I had glimpsed — Popocate-
petl, the base of him swathed in veils of bright blue, his
top a rosy snow-wreath. Merely Mount Washington in
the late light ; but no snow-clad volcano could have been
lovelier. He gave me time for one long look, then be-
gan to fade ; and I fled. I did n’t want to see him turn

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THE LONE WINTER

hard and horrid like everything else ; but at the far edge
Lot’s wife had to look back, and lo ! he was a sweet lilac,
above his blue robe, and very, very lovely.

After that I descended in peace, indifferent that Ascut-
ney was carving heaven with his edge, or that our dear
supper rock bulged like an immodest croquet-ball upon
his wooded rim. Our feathery hemlocks, even, at the
head of my Christmas-card hollow, were wrought-iron
upon the sky ; and, hastening down the last slopes, I looked
eagerly into the barn-yard for something soft and sym-
pathetic. So nice to know I should find it there! A
dozen dear faces were turned lovingly up ; I greeted them
by name. They at once swarmed to the bar-way; leaning
over it to scratch every one of their faithful noses, I told
them there were times when they were far more comfort
than sunsets; and they bit each other for joy.

One of my very vivid ameliorations, too, is a call from
Lucile. Lucile is an eleven-year-old neighbor, and so-
ciable. She is also encouragingly bookish. So she comes
over and borrows books. Yesterday she came on skis —
a fine new pair, ebony black. She upturned them on the
porch with pride. Lucile has two nice golden-brown pig-
tails, — of crinkly, pretty hair that does beg to be allowed
to curl, but is pasted violently back and belayed with
combs, — a smooth, tanned skin, and blue eyes of an
unusual shape — long, level, with long corners. I find
myself staring at Lucile’s eyes. A sense of humor seems
to go with them; Lucile has a beautiful twinkle, and a
mind that pounces on things. So we have perfect times.
She regards me, I think, as an amiable freak; discards
my suggestions with ease and freedom. Looking over
a row of books, I unthinkingly said, “Here ’s one — The

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THE LONE WINTER

Three Porcupines/ You’d like that, Lucile — and it’s
easy reading.”

Lucile, with a very level expression, took the book.
‘'Don’t need easy readin’ l” . . . She was quite right ! A
‘'smart scholar” in school — she does n’t need easy reading.
I ate my words with grace. . . .

In mild weather Lucile also borrows ponies. In spring
and autumn she rides our rampant colts up and down the
lane ; they may dance and fidget, but she sticks tight, and
manages her reins well. My Babs being now beyond
Shetland age, I don’t know what we should do without
Lucile’s young pluck. But how she loves it ! Riding .a
recently subjugated specimen in from the lane, with what
pride she twirls him round before us, and turns him this
way and that! Then, with her competent little nose in
the air, starts him off up the mowing-road! If she
tumbles off, she giggles and mounts again; if the saddle
twists, or a bridle-rein breaks, Lucile knows what to do
— and does it, with composure. Nothing like a farm
training for that. . . . Composure, in fact, is Lucile’s
great card. Also independence. After various pleasant
interludes yesterday, and much book discussion, she was
taking her leave.

‘'Got to go now. Ma said I could stay an hour. S’pose
it’s an hour, ain’t it?”

I reluctantly admitted it was.

She fingered my typewriter longingly. ‘'Well, s’pose
I ’ll put my old coat on. It ’s awful old. But Mia says
it ’s just right to go skiin’ in.” I helped her with the arms
— a tight fit ! Then the knitted cap, muffler, and gloves ;
and the little figure flitted through the kitchen. Adjust-

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THE LONE WINTER

ing the new skis with unsentimental speed, “G’by!” she
threw at me, and was skimming away.

“Lucile, where ’s your pole ?”

“Don’t need no pole!” came the crisp reply. And,
watching her, I ate my words again. She did n’t!

Down the snow billows of the lane whizzed the little
figure, and across the brook — not a single tumble.
Hooray for a country bringing up!

* * *

January io.

I wish Boo-boo were n’t so fond of literature. In the
morning the sun shines on my work-table, so he takes his
perch there on a pile of precious manuscript and dislikes
to be dislodged. Under the lamplight, too, the low table
allures him, and he leaps lightly up, sometimes merely
sitting there, sometimes trifling, delicately, with the fas-
cinating mechanism of keys. This morning there were
cat-hairs in oily parts of the machinery; and they won’t
brush off! When I came in from the bam I found him
up there, surveying the machine coquettishly out of the
corner of one eye; so, despite a wiggle of protest I put
him out of the window upon the straw of the banking,
where he likes to sleep. But he walked up to the .side
steps and seated himself. Goliath was on the step above
him ; they both sat there meditatively, gazing at the val-
ley. Goliath stooped and smelled at Boo’s ear; then -re-
sumed his gazing. Everybody gazes at the valley, from
that side porch. Goliath finds it a source of endless
speculation. This morning there must have been a butch-
ering somewhere; his long yellow nose was questing un-
commonly.. Pretty soon I shall miss him; but later he

[1273

THE LONE WINTER

will appear with a penitent expression and a frightful
great gory bone, with which he will proceed to ensanguine
the terrace snow. And then I shall have to go out with
the fireplace shovel, and poke fresh whiteness over the
spots. I don’t like gory snow!

At breakfast to-day I could not help noticing how
nice the shine is on the backs of our dining-room chairs.
There is no varnish on them ; it is flannel-shirt shine! We
use this room mostly in winter, so the chair-backs are
.beautifully polished merely with the friction of our favo-
rite winter raiment. They are nice old chairs ; they have
mahogany backs with carved grapes at the top, — and blue-
green tapestry seats, growing pleasantly faded in this
sunny room.

(I have just let Boo in again. A round face, very
serious, almost agonized, appeared above the window-sill
beside me; two round, lemon-colored eyes stared miser-
ably into mine. The sill is unpleasantly sloping, and he
cannot hang there long, so I lifted the sash, and with a
bright “Pro-oo!” of thanks he hopped in.)

I noticed, too, how charming was the dark-blue bowl
of lilies on the mahogany breakfast-table. Across it I
see two thin, white-painted, old doors, of unequal size,
with antique hinges; beside them is a notch in the buff
wall containing a worn but well-bred old table bearing
brass candlesticks and fruit-bowl. Above this table, in
the notch, is a pastel of my child, aged eight, in a sea-
blue frock, with her dark hair Dutch-cut; it is a good
likeness, but what matters, apart from that, is the note
of blue on the sand-colored wall, neighboring the thin
old white doors, and the brown table with its gleam of
brass. . . . The long leaves of the lilies were veined and

[128]

whitish at the base, then yellow-green; later, as they
streamed upward to the creamy heads of the blossoms,
jade-green, with a soft blue bloom upon them where they
turned to the light. The blue of the sky! They had
brought it in for me. Not many plants can do that. That
is one reason I love lilies so. Another is, a very dear
person sent them to me, bowl and all. . . . Did she think,
I wonder, of my notes of blue ? For even in the Japanese
curtains are touches of it— thin slips of color, only, not
to collide with the view, but just to show my dear rattly
old window-frames they are not neglected !

* * *

Evening.

The reason, I suppose, why I was so dreamy at break-
fast, was that the day before was a day of immense social
agitation ! Some friends telephoned that they were driv-
ing up from the Inn to see me that afternoon ; and, with a
certain buzz of mingled alarm and pleasure going through
me, I urged them to come.

Friends are very exciting! Old friends, that one has
not seen for years. . . . My room, I suddenly saw,-
needed dusting. A few of Goliath’s golden hairs were
ornamenting the blue-and-sand-colored rugs; in comers
of the ceiling a surreptitious cobweb or two had appeared.
This old house exudes spiders, I find, at every season
of the year. Immodest spiders, who do not go into proper
winter retirement. I wish they would leave off spinning
webs in snow-time ; one’s ceilings are then so distressingly
bright. In summer, I and the hearth-broom have daily
quests and always find a series of darling little webs,
done overnight, on beam or fireplace, not to mention long,
indecently dangling ropes, down which athletic builders

C I2 9]

THE LONE WINTER

gaily climb, aiming, usually, for the center of the hearth-
rug, and leaving their telltale halyards waving directly
in a visitor’s face! . . . How different a loved and
familiar spot appears, when viewed with the eye of prob-
able guests. I suddenly saw all sorts of sins in my
house. That new leak on the living-room ceiling — how
yellow-brown and grievous ! It was done by the thirsty
rat that gnawed a hole in a bath-room lead pipe and let
down a cataract on us in the middle of the night — an
odious rat ! And the stain would not have been that fear-
ful color had it not been for the chipmunks and red squir-
rels who store butternut shells — inches deep of them —
in the space between our ceilings and upper floors. (Car-
penters, when the house was carved open for dormers,
found the shells there.) In the autumn we hear them
doing it — rolling balls about, over our heads; and, at
night, what carnivals and scamperings! I used to be
annoyed by it; but I should miss it now — that sound of
revelry by night. When one is quite alone, one likes to
hear the furry people having such a gay time up above.

After a morning of writing, therefore, — for no guest,
dust, or spider-web would one omit that! — I threw one
distracted glance about me, and flew. Bestriding a com-
manding peak of my wood-pile, I furiously shook my
rugs; in winter that is the only place there is to shake
them. I will not flutter dust over the pretty snow! I
like clean snow quite as much as I like clean rugs. And
the night before there had fallen a delightful fluffy inch
of it, all downy and lovely around the rose-bushes and
on the straw banking. . . .

Soon it was two o’clock; I pushed the hair from my
smoothing brow. Could I not, now that this practical

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THE LONE WINTER

side of the house was finished, open up the decorative
one? Was there not time to have a glorious fire on the
hearth, the wicker tea-table set near, the piano open and
hospitable? I cast a reckless glance into the old hall-
mirror with its pale-gold frame — at my snow-illumined
image, all flying hair and shining eyes, and muttering
scornfully, “Oh, it won’t take a second to dress !” departed
on a trot for the wood-shed. I found a three-foot log
with the gray bark still on it, — I love flame-color licking
over gray ! — and upon this built a noble structure ; then,
after a dab with a duster, a clutch at water-colors, and a
tweak forward to the tea-table, sped upstairs.

Coming down again, I went hopefully to the window.
It was three o’clock. But Inn luncheons are late, of
course, so I walked restlessly about, eying the living-room
with its thoughtful color, its golden fire, its side view of
snowy orchards, and longing for a sound of bells. I can
always tell those Inn bells, with their pinched politeness
of sound, so different from the hearty dongling of coun-
try sled-bells. . . . Ha! through the woods, a thin tin-
gling; a glittering equipage appeared. I flew about for, a
moment — that picture was crooked, and, good heavens, I
hadn’t dusted the clock! — and then stood on the porch,
palpitating, but with warm pleasure in my heart. It was
nice (though I don’t approve of it) to see varnish once
more, and well-cared-for faces ; and clothes, real clothes ;
and velvet hats with glitterations on them! The smiles
approached, cleverly navigating my newly-brushed ice-
path between the cinnamon roses and the drifts ; and soon
my little hall was filled with chatter, as furs were doffed.
Then the chatter moved in beside the blazing logs. What
a strange joy it was ta talk, to fish gleefully into the past

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THE LONE WINTER

and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma
of pleasantness that pasts always seem to possess ! And
then to divert ourselves to the still more amusing present.

My friends, when informed of my manner of life,
grasped their chair-arms in amazed interest. They know
my wild love of outdoors too well to be horrified; but
“You haven’t anybody to help you — in the barn?” they
repeated, quite without smiles, and gazing searchingly at
me; and, at my grin of negation, lapsed back upon the
cushions of their chairs.

“Well,” said the elder of the two, reflectively helping
herself to a biscuit, “I was telling Gwendolyn as we drove
out, I thought I could be very contented, living in the
country. I don’t think it would bore me, really!” (I
thought it very nice of her to say that.)

“It would n’t on this farm !” I replied gaily. “Drama
never fails us.” And I related a few of our little contre-
temps . I told them about our mother-ponies ; of old Julia,
who takes her child under the hedge when it rains, and
squints learnedly up at the clouds before she allows it to
venture out ; of the time, late one summer evening, after a
hard storm, when I went the round of the sheds and
found dear old Julia down from the woods and taking
shelter there, a wet green leaf in her mane, and hidden be-
hind her, in the shadowy corner, a brand-new colt! . . .
Of the expression more than humanly rich and soft and
proud in her brown eyes. ...

Pretty, golden-haired Gwendolyn, who looks eighteen
but has three golden-haired babies of her own at home,
was listening trancedly. She looked at her mother.

“How simple !” she sighed. “Would n’t it be nice to go

to the woods that way ”

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“And come down with a green leaf in your hair?” I
finished, smiling. “Very becoming, my dear!”

When these most satisfying visitors rose, the sunset was
spreading loveliness upon sky and hills; asseverations of
the “interesting time” they had had floated back from
among the cinnamon rose-bushes. I stood on the porch,
watching; then walked, still in a pleasant daze, into the
living-room. Tea fragments were piled in pictorial
heaps . . . just what the room needed — a little friendly
disorder. ... I picked up the tray.

Chores that evening were done in a gilded haze. Bright
voices, glints of sequins and sapphire velvet, tinged my
comings and goings ; an atmosphere of almost human good
will radiated from hay, pitchforks, and sniggering beasts ;
but that evening, when, with a thought of more hours
before that glorious fire, I glanced in at the living-room
door, the empty chairs before the hearth sent me tumultu-
ously out again . . . and bolting back into my den of
industry. ... A different climate reigned there: the cat
had his chair, the dog his rug, I my writing-table. I looked
round me with thankfulness. It seemed once more pos-
sible to be alone. ... At supper, Boo reached up with
adoring claws, Goliath’s golden head arrived on my other
side, and, regardless of my rug, I distributed bread and
butter lavishly.

* * *

January 12.

Sunrise this morning was the loveliest yet, with streaks
of mist stringing romantically across mountains, blotting
out the tops of a forest, or curling away down a valley.
There had been a heavy white frost, and all the woods
were silvered. A misty sun came up; shadowy color

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crept upon the hills ; hollows in the snow-fields were misty
blue or pale lavender. It was all gentle and soft-edged
and sweet, as if to make up for the awful hardness one
had suffered from of late. As I went out, the rose-color,
even more deliciously shadowed, was creeping down the
knoll, on whose rosy sides streaked blue shadows of the
maple-grove.

My eye, suddenly descending, fell on a most humorous
black blot in the path — an exact portrait of Kipling’s
“Animal That Came Up Out of the Sea” ; and I laughed
aloud. Bally Beg ! who had escaped me the night before,
and stayed out. Now he stood fatefully regarding me,
a beard of hoar-frost under his chin, white hoar-frost
whiskers, and in the midst a very black, solemn little face
and two shoe-button eyes with a gleam of high light in
each. His ears, so small they were almost lost in that
frosted foretop, stuck up tiny points of interrogation.
... “I ’ve been out all night 1 What will she do with
me ?” But he stood his manful ground as I approached.

“Bally, you sinner,” I said, “come into the barn !” With
a marked brightening of expression, he trotted briskly in,
and at once made a spiteful dart for little Queen, who was
chewing something ! But I had him by the frosted fore-
top before he had obliterated her entirely, and dragged
him into the hay barn. That was paradise ; and, while I
slammed down wooden windows and negotiated wickering
noses, Bally pawed for oat-husks and had a heavenly
time. Then he was again seized by that unfortunate front
hair and towed out to breakfast with his mates. He
condescends to stay with them at meals; but, when the
last wisp is cleaned up, off goes Bally over his ice-
mountain. It is a dreadful example to the others; but

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how can one possibly build a fence over a wall already
buried in ice, and ending in the watering-trough? He
will slip in, some day ; that is my worry. We had a sheep
drown in that trough one winter. ...

As I sat milking this morning, I woke up to the fact
that I was most blessed in my view — from the milking-
stool. The barn is old, mellow, and brown, with white-
wash wearing becomingly off, and hand-hewed beams.
Just across the aisle is Superb, with her nut-color and
silver stockings. Beyond her appears about two-thirds of
jet-black Thalma, around whom hovers the pale shape of
Elizabeth. Farther on is pretty little Queen, very dressy
in her white halter; and from the stall across the aisle
sometimes a chestnut tail protrudes ; anon it moves for-
ward if Donny is in a fidget to be out. Sunny, beyond
her, is obscured from me; but just behind the looming
bulk of Cressy I hear Lassie munching so loud that a pic-
ture of her, too, is added to the scene. Elizabeth dearly
loves to watch me milk, and comes wandering down the
brown aisle, delicately gathering a straw or two as she loit-
ers along, finally taking up her stand by me, directly behind
Cressy, and staring with cocked ears at the fascinating
process. I love her interest ; in fact, I love her all over :
shy eyes, silvery wool, round hips, curly tail. I think
Cressy would kick if she knew she were being so minutely
watched ; she hates ponies, and she hates being watched.
Sometimes Elizabeth advances so far as to lay her little
nose on my knees and turn one eye inquisitively down
into the pail! doubtless wondering if she would enjoy
this queer milk as much as she does Mother’s. . . .

After she wanders away I rise, with actual regret, from
my job and my pleasant scenery. Then the rush to the

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yard begins ; a mash of Shetlands, then Donlinna the in-
tolerable, who, darting furiously about, clears the neigh-
borhood of every living thing before she will begin her
deliberate drink, when she nuzzles fussily at bits of float-
ing ice. After this sacred rite is over, she becomes sud-
denly playful; seizes Elizabeth by the wool (she adores
Elizabeth, and is really most gentle with her), and the
two go curveting off for their games, dodging about the
salt-rocks, nipping desperately at each other’s knees, or
racing about with their tails high in air. Donny has to
stoop far down to get at Elizabeth’s knees ; but that daunt-
less baby sasses up to her big playmate as if more than
her equal in size. ... It is a hard sight to get away
from; but I propel myself indoors.

, * * *

Aftertioon.

A snow-storm is sweeping across the hills. From a
soft blue the sky grew swiftly gray, and I looked out in
time to see Long Hill losing itself in whiteness. In the
valley, gray veils began whirling against the woods ; and
there the storm seemed to stay. But it must have been
racing toward us, for in another instant great flakes came
across our big elms, at first indefinitely, then making a
fierce rush up the hill. Recruits joined them, the valley
thickened, and now I can see only the line of trees by the
first wall — thin, ghostly, in the driving snow — and a few
hunted-looking pear-trees.

I love this blotting out by a storm. One feels so shel-
tered, so wrapped round. One might be at sea! The
winds roar; there are rattlings and shiverings — the rat-
tling of rigging, the shivering of a ship’s timbers in a

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gale? When darkness comes, I shall be looking out for
a lighthouse. We lived once where we saw five. They
blinked, from dune or ocean, their different blinks at us,
and were most comforting. In the worst storms one or
two of them disappeared; but on a sand-bar across the
bay was a pink one that shone almost at our windows.
The lighthouse-keeper’s wife used to watch for my lonely
light, as I watched for hers ; if mine did not appear, she
would say, “Mis’ Greene ’s down street — or she ’s gone
boatin’, and ain’t got back yet” ; and she would look out
to see that light shine across the water. . . .

From here I see no lights. By day, three little snow-
covered barn roofs, each smaller than the other, show
against a hemlock hill; and to the right, where a high
pasture rolls downward, are more tiny roofs, with chim-
neys, and rosy brick gables. If the field had rolled a little
lower, I should have had their lamps gleaming up at me ;
every winter scene needs one light to be the heart of the
dark flower. But pink gables are something; they catch
the sunrise, and I prize them. . . . All day, wood-
choppers have been annoying me. From a far hillside I
could hear that insignificant sound of pecking, which
means such dole to the forests, and just now, as I stood
watching the storm, they began again. I thought, . of
course, they had gone. “Oh, stop pecking and look at
something beautiful!” I found myself saying, petulantly.
. . . How can they chop in such a lovely storm?

Boo-boo, with a piteous expression, and a horrid brown
cobweb strung all across his face, has just been hanging
on the window-edge. I let him in and took off the cob-
web, and he is now sitting on the inside sill, purring, his
head tilted to -watch the snow-flakes. His eyes dance;

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he tilts his head adorably, and tosses a coquettish nose.
He is so charming, with his orange back and snowy breast
against the storm ! During his city winter, that was one
joy not denied him; sitting in a window, he could watch
the rush of white flakes across the chimney-pots, and the
flight of disturbed pigeons. Sometimes the pigeons
wheeled quite near; Boo would crouch, and his eyes
darken desirously. But, like most city fun, it came to
nothing. The pigeons clapped their wings and flew away.

* * *

January 13.

I had a sad puzzle about my dinner, to-day ! After a
fevered morning at work, I rose, wondering rather dis-
mally what I should have for dinner. (I have gravitated
to noon dinners after all; I find that it is then or never.)
There was beefsteak — the remnants of a rash two pounds
the stage-driver brought up days ago. I shall never get
two pounds of anything again. It keeps terribly here ; we
get our meat very fresh — “walking around, yesterday!”
as Babs remarked ; — also it ’s very tough. But there was
a portion of nice soft tomato, ready for warming, and —
and — I pressed my hands to my bewildered forehead —
aha! I would have rice. That was quick and easy to
do, my kettle was boiling ; so I hove in dry shingles, trans-
ferred the kettle, and set a cupful of rice dancing. Watch-
ing it, I suddenly remembered that it was time to take in
the cow ; so I dashed out, tossed her her dinner, and sped
hack again — to pass a toasting-fork exploringly through
the sunken rice. It is not Japanese, Fanny says, to stir
it with a spoon; besides, it is gummy; and I don’t like
gummy rice. . . . Once more I careered barnward to let

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THE LONE WINTER

in certain ponies for a noon meal. Donlinna, who thinks
she is a frail flower and needs cherishing, rushes in with
them; and Thalma, whether I want her or not, shoots in
under my arm like a bullet. Sometimes I think she de-
serves this pampering, sometimes I don’t; but she comes
in just the same. Elizabeth, meanwhile, stands by the
shed and stares. She does n’t want to leave the fun of
the yard just because Mother is ravenous; so, after in-
viting her, I closed the door.

Again I sped into the house to stir the rice, but found
it taking clever care of itself, and swollen to a snowy,
soft-grained mass. ... On my blue plate, though, flank-
ing the hastily toasted steak, it looked somehow arid and
unrelated. . . . Gravy! and cursing my wretched com-
position sense, which dogs me like my shadow, I went into
the kitchen, made gravy, poured its uniting tint over the
Alpine stretches of rice — and sat down at last in peace ;
eating with one hand, greedily reading (with the other ! )
a lurid Western novel. . . . There is such a thing (as the
T. B. M. has discovered!) as relaxing one’s brain with
material one would otherwise scorn ; so my Western story,
with its bold, unshaded happenings, was a success. I rose
revived. . . .

Bally Beg, by the way, did fall into the trough to-day !
I was sure he would. I met him, luckily, soon after, as
he was walking ruefully round from the lower path,
shivering a like an ager,”"the rear half of him soaking
wet and trimmed with little icicles. He gave a pathetic
“Hoo-hoo!” when he saw me, and came jingling toward
me with hope in his little ears. . . . He has lately gath-
ered a bunch of burdocks in his foretop, which stiffen it
greatly as a hauling medium ; so by that ornament I drew

[I3&S

THE LONE WINTER

him into a warm stall and gave him aconite and grain with
ginger in it, and he is none the worse. But what a daunt-
ing bath! We shall see now whether he will attempt to
scale his glacier again. A slip like that is alarming — but
so is Shetland persistence. Its example would have done
Robert Bruce more good, I know, than collections of
spiders — of whom it would take an entire phalanx, climb-
ing and reclimbing, to give even a hint of the mental
workings of this same Bally; of Kim at his calf-chains;
of Thalma the Bullet; of Ocean, the fence-derider — or,
perhaps (some day), of sweet and docile baby Elizabeth.
Who can tell?

* * *

January 14.

My wood-choppers have ceased pecking and become
pictorial. Their hillside shows its profile to us; and
down its perilous steeps the loads of logs go plunging. It
is a heroic job. The driver stands, leaning back mightily
on his lines, while the horses gallop to keep out from
under the load. In the far distance, and in to-day’s driv-
ing snow-storm, these shapes of galloping horses flitted
like Valkyrs in the clouds. The forest was behind them,
the storm roared, and Valkyr music rushed about the
sky: Brunnhilde, on the heights, might well have been
waving her warrior sisters to earthward flight. More
teams rushed downward through the gray whirl; shouts
battled with the shriek of the wind ; into the drifts, with
a smother of white, then out again across the fields. . . .
They must be in a hurry for those logs — for men are
loath to be out in such storms. It is late afternoon, now,
the sky is darkening, and snow pelting, on the windows ;
but still the muffled shouts come up across the wind.

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January 15.

This has been a day of odds and ends. Last night the
plumbing sprang a mysterious leak; so my providential
neighbor — the one whose chimneys I see in the valley, and
who is that mixture of farmer, plumber, electrician, car-
penter, sportsman, and general humorist to be found only
in the heart of rural regions — came striding briskly up our
hill, soldering-kit in hand. Between us, with much step-
laddering and running up and down, the mystery was
partly solved and the beastly pipes put in shape again.
That necessarily shattered my morning; yet I managed,
while my neighbor was soothingly soldering away up-
stairs, to slip in a distracted paragraph or two. (John
Burroughs says a paragraph a day is an essay a month —
and an essay a month is a book a year — which ought to,
be enough for any one !)

In the afternoon I meant to do a great deal and did n’t.
It was ice-storming — hard ; the steady slatting on the win-
dows inspired one to a sort of cozy idleness. I tried to
write, but my brain would go to sleep in the middle of
sentences ; so I displaced Boo-boo from his chair by my
pet window, read an essay, and dreamed into the view.
It was a gray, stormy, disappearing view, the kind I espe-
cially love ; and I sat there, loving it. Trees were a clear,
f ringy silver ; lower down, a red-brown, edged with silver ;
ending with their dark, unsilvered stems. The woodlands,
too, were shadowy silver; far in the valley was a little
ice-bouquet of an apple-tree, very tiny and perfect, set in
the middle of a white meadow. Hills, there were none;
beyond the apple-tree, just veils upon veils of storm.

Near by, the garden was shining with ice.; and tke.tWQ*

THE LONE WINTER

old faded lettuce-green doors in the ell had a coat of
ice-varnish which turned them a detestable grass-green.
The ell-frorit is usually so nice ; it is capable of a fringe of
icicles a yard long; and I make a point of looking at it.
But to-day I fell back in my chair and forgot it as soon
as possible. . . . The way the antiphonal winds went
chanting about, now in this side of the valley, now in that!
The book of essays was often in my lap; I had a sense
of ineffable leisure. All the animals were in; the cow
barn ponies loose in their quarters (probably irritating
Cressy to the frothing-point by stealing spears of her
hay!) ; and down-stairs I had let the horses roam as they
chose. Ice-storms are their detestation. ...

At last I pulled on goloshes and departed into a slip-
pery world. It was still icing; the path glittered, reflect-
ing yellow gleams from my lantern. ... I found the
horse barn in confusion. The children had been playing
hard. The hay alley ladder was down across the aisle;
brushes, pails, and measures were strewn about the floor.

“Had a lovely time — housekeeping, did n’t you ?” I in-
quired, shutting them hastily into their stalls; and they
seemed subdued and guilty. Bally Beg was scuttling nerv-
ously about under everybody’s legs, for he lives with the
horses now, and, just because he is bad and climbs a
wall, has a palatial box-stall all to himself. It enrages
me every time I put him in. Some of the perfectly good
yard ponies deserve it a great deal more ; but I really don’t
want Bally to drown.

I then went about doing chores, putting down moun-
tains of dusty hay, but still feeling that sense of infinite
leisure — the aftermath of my desultory afternoon; and
I fiddled so long with Cressy’s bunch of hay, getting just

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THE LONE WINTER

the exact amount picked up on the fork, that she blew at
me in exasperation. I love to hear a cow do that. . . .
Donlinna’s hair was soaking wet from the storm, and
when I made her up an especially beautiful bed she at
once pawed it impetuously back into the aisle! With
great effort — Donny never likes to move — I pushed her
forward and redistributed the straw, draping it judiciously
round her legs; and she immediately lay down upon it
with a gusty sigh of satisfaction! Donny is a funny
mare, not unlike some excellent housekeepers I know;
I suppose it was n’t “made to suit her” at first !

With the lantern on my arm, I staggered across the
icy yard with great loads of hay for the shed ponies, who
followed me in a slipping, squealing, skidding crowd,
stealing bites off my load, twitching me this way and that,
and so imperiling my precarious equilibrium that I roared
at them in wrath; whereat they scampered tumultuously
ahead, turning to greet me in the doorway with such care-
fully innocent faces! Dropping my burden, I waded
through whisking forms, trying to string a systematic
supper for them around the walls. It is their most cher-
ished playtime; one grows expert dodging heels. The
heels of joy, merely! which mostly bang on the parti-
tion — so much so, that a plank in their house was entirely
absent one morning, and a nice snow-landscape look-
ing in !

All the wooden buttons on the shed doors were glued
fast with ice. I like iced buttons. It is fun to knock
them with a fork-handle, and see the satiny covering of
ice crinkle up, as they yield. . . . To-night the yard was
gray, darksome, and void; last night it was brilliant as
a ball-room, with that glorious pair, crescent moon and

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THE LONE WINTER

evening star, hanging together just over the snow-laden
roofs. Orion, above the watering-trough, was charging
up into the heavens with that valiant air of his I love so ;
and all the great blue-blackness thick with stars. The
barn-yard is beautiful at night ; no matter how the wind
howls, I have to halt in the middle of it and stare. One
sees more stars there than from anywhere else; it seems
under the very center of them; and they shine so per-
sonally down. Anything peering right over your barn
roof at you can’t but be personal; and Venus and the
moon were like two jolly intimates up there — though so
frostily lovely as to take one’s breath away.

Their neighborliness was inspiriting : I did all sorts of
extra things. I even gave an evening chop to the trough —
it makes it so much easier for the poor frozen thing to
overflow properly during the night, without having to
swell up like a compressed volcano, looking, in the morn-
ing, like an especially fat apple tart with a cup under its
crust! And, when you chop into the tart, it explodes all
over you.

* * *

January 17.

The stock hay is nearly gone from my kind convenient
little loft above the cow stable, and soon I shall have
to daunt the horrid heights on the other side of the
barn. My neighbors — who did my haying “on shares” —
have taken away their half, cutting perpendicularly down
and leaving a shaven precipice in the very middle; so
that the built-in ladder (which bisects the mow) barely
connects with one small and shaky corner of the square.
Last night, as I stood on the hay bam floor surveying

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THE LONE WINTER

it, it looked rather ghastly. A storm was howling out-
side, the wind tearing round the old building, shaking
it and making my lantern flicker in the draft. ... I
don’t like windy nights in that old barn! Everything
whacks and rattles so; things hung on the outside of
it — a pair of old whiffletrees — make noises like a bat-
tering-ram. Boo-boo, as usual in a storm, was highly
elated ; with a victorious “Pr-oo !” he dashed up the ladder
three rounds at a jump, popped his golden head wickedly
over the edge at me, and disappeared in a whisk of hay-
dust. Reluctantly I grasped fork and lantern and started
up after him. Everything did roar so ; I could n’t even
hear the vehement pawings on the other side of the
partition; the shadows seemed unusually black, my lan-
tern dimmer than common. There was a queer, half-
greenish tint upon the hay. . . . One suddenly felt very
much alone!

I set the lantern on its customary beam, so that the
rays fell upon the depleted contents of the little loft,
which I proceeded to throw down; and, as the forkfuls
went thudding down into the inky blackness below, a
terror stole over me. ... I glanced fearfully around.
What if I should see, in the greenish darkness, a Face
upon that ladder? ... or hear a growly Voice, ad-
dressing me out of the shadows ?

Just then came a whirl of real sound behind me — a
mad thrashing in straw ; then a crash. My heart stopped !
Cold as ice, but gripping my fork, I slowly turned to
face — whatever it might be ; and there on a beam crouched
Boo-boo, staring wickedly at me! My fork fell with a
thud. I sank upon the straw.

“Boo!” I said weakly. “You frightened me so!”

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THE LONE WINTER

“Pr-ow!” he said gaily. “Did I?” and, with one of
his unerring leaps, landed in my lap. I pressed him to
my face. “Stay with me, Boodums,” I said; “Missis is
silly to-night” ; and rose, with him clinging to my shoul-
der, purring blissfully. Not often does he get rides in
hay-lofts; and, just as in his youth he stuck to the ponies’
backs, so now he clung while I dealt with hay and yet
more hay, and with that warm, purring thing on my neck,
all the foolish bogies went shrieking away into the storm !

But they were very real bogies. In my childhood I
used to have them fearfully — at night; wolves, always
wolves, closer and closer, stepping, stepping — though all
the time it was my little heart, beating with terror against
the pillow. But how was I to know that? ... It was
wolves; I heard them coming! My nurse had told me
stories about wolves in Siberian forests ; and every
night they came after me, till I nearly died with fright.
I never told any one; it was too awful!

Boo even went with me out into the storm to put the
ponies to bed. As we passed a fence-post he felt obliged
to jump upon that, and left me ; but he was waiting out-
side the stable door when I had fed the horses and
stepped out again into the whirling snow. “Pr-oo !” and
there was a faithful bunch of fur leaping through the
drifts. He is dependable that way — when you’d least
expect it, of a cat. He seems to have me on his mind
this winter. . . .

As we gained the warm, cozy kitchen, however, I drew
its bolts with haste and pleasure, and we settled ourselves
for a meal, thinking happily of those others also sup-
ping, in their stalls. . . . Though I should want a light,
if I were a horse! Stalls are shadowy things. . • . I

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THE LONE WINTER

should want several lights! . . . Whereat, not to think
about shadows any more, I reached for a book. Later,
Boo asked to go out.

“What — again, Boo?” I said. “You are a little sport!”
and held the door open to watch the brave little figure
bounding through the drifts. “He ’s more of a sport than
you, old man!” I told Goliath, who was making pretty-
bows in my rear, and casting a longing eye toward the
abandoned milk in the kitty-dish. “Yes, drink it up! Boo
is out for gayer things than milk!”

And so it proved. A muffled “Maw !” at the window,
and there he was, two shining eyes, — and a large, dark
thing in his mouth. I rushed to let him in — and a strong
waft of wind and snow with him. “Oh, noble Boo!”
I cried (for we encourage these hunts !) ; “oh, a wonderful
rat, darling!” as he laid a large gray rat on the rug and
looked beamingly up. “Yes, Boo, quite the most mar-
velous rat I ever saw!” and he twined lovingly round
my feet. . . . “Prow-row!” he murmured softly . . .
then with a sudden, ferocious change of expression, fell
bloodthirstily upon his meal!

“Boo!” I shrieked, “not here! not on my rug!” and,
rat and all, conveyed him into the kitchen, closing the
door gently upon him.

To-day the storm is over. The sun shines brightly, yet
winds are not “now upgathered like sleeping flowers”;
they are still howling — and our light snow is fleeing before
them. The “wully wa’s,” such as Kim and the Lama
watched on Kedarnath, are whirling upon the shining
crust of the hills; on the bald brow of Long Hill they
are doing the wildest white dances — everywhere running,

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THE LONE WINTER

twisting, fleeting before the blasts of cold north wind.
It is a misty, silvery world, seen through this glittering
Spray; even the blue sky is silvery; the sunshine is pure
silver on the profiles of the pasture billows. Those agile
"wully waV ’ are not only on the hills ; they are playing
swift tag in the meadow — skitting wildly through the lit-
tle orchard and down the bank into the garden, where
they seize hands and do mad whirligigs for the benefit
of a sweet crab-apple-tree on its edge. . . . An expanse
of glittering crust will be apparently swept bare; but
straight at it from somewhere comes a rush of fresh
ones, gyrating rapturously upon this fine new ball-room
floor, like a frolic of ghosts.

Even under the warm sun, the mercury is sinking. It
promises a cold night.

* * *

January 18.

Twenty below !

Something woke me soon after six. A solemn glow
was burning over the woods, and I got up. There was
something portentous in the look of it. Last night the
moon and stars glittered ominously, few stars only being
visible, as the moon’s light is now strong. The wind
roared blindingly.

Earlier, while I was half asleep, a loud bong had startled
me, slightly shaking the bed. It sounded like a pipe; I
am getting to know what bong in the morning means!
Were all our labors of the day before to be of no avail?
And I dressed hastily, wondering what melodrama of
plumbing the day might bring forth.

Down-stairs I found the precious spring water run-
ning merrily; and drew a sigh of relief. Other things

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THE LONE WINTER

did not matter! The bath-room, to be sure, was frozen
solid — the bong had come from there; but on the spring
faucet all one’s hopes are hung. So, putting on two pairs
of gloves, I went very cheerfully out to the bam.

The jinimals were fairly crisp! Poor Cressy was in
a shivering hoop, with a belt of frost across her hips ; all
the ponies had frosty muzzles. How they did pound for
their breakfast! I ran, serving them; and every time
I came out of that tomb of a hay barn I did a dance of
pain, pulling off gloves to blow on my unbearable fingers.
To grasp a pitchfork was agony. . . . And there was
no hay down for the horses in the lower stable! So I
had to locomote those lofts, — I know ft was forty below
up there! — pulling out prolonged and reluctant locks of
hay (it is sticking badly just now) and poking it down the
drafty hole with all the deliberation of a summer noon.

On coming out of the bams at last, a measure of the
cold was given me by the sight of a most pitiful rabbit-
cat (who had gone bravely out with me), sitting in the
sunniest spot he could find, shivering violently, and shift-
ing his toes miserably up and down. I never saw Boo
shiver before, — except on a Boston fire-escape, where I
used to put him out for air ; and then he shivered at the
street noises! — so, swinging him to my shoulder, where
he did not purr at all, I raced to the house. He made
at once for the sun-spot on his pile of manuscript, and
crouched there, still shifting his paws with a look of suf-
fering.

The snow has frozen into hard banks; there are no
wully wa’s to-day. I miss them. One likes to see the
winter fields so gay. There is the same wind, though;
that is why the bams are cold. On a still day they are

[149]

THE LONE WINTER

cozy, even at this temperature; but — cracks! We stuff
and we putty and we batten ; still they seem to be there.
... It is something, on days like this, merely to keep
oneself and the animals alive. For instance, I had this
morning a death-grapple with the watering-trough. Ten
a. m., and a bright sun shining — and the blasts of wind
going through one like daggers. A thirsty circle of
ponies was behind me ; I hove the ax above my head, — and
I hove, and I hove ; and still my pale-green furrow in the
ice was dry. Just as I was wondering if the beastly
thing had frozen clear to the bottom, sloop ! and a gout
of blessed water flew in my face. Ponies ran in under
my arm, but I had to shoo them away, explaining that in
a few seconds Missis would have it all beautiful. It was
more like twenty minutes ; those cakes of ice were worthy
of the summer iceman; and Missis worked and grunted,
great, top-heavy cakes slipping off her fork and going,
plop! back into the heaving water, whence they had to
be laboriously fished. But they helped the igloo wonder-
fully.

(Oh! Bally Beg is staying in!! I have built a regu-
lar Eskimo construction over the stone wall, this lovely
cold snap, and cemented it with shovelfuls of water. It
is tall and bumpy and light-green and most spectacular,
and Bally eyes it with awe. He knows that on the hither
side resides a cold, wet, icicly bath for a small black
sinner to fall into ; and he has decided to put up, for a
time at least, with the yard. . . . Now I don’t have to
lose my temper putting him in an unearned palace every
night. . . . Just like the beastly Bolshevists in Petrograd !
only I should lose my temper a good deal worse over
Bolshevists, I fancy, than over Bally Beg. . . .)

[ISO]

THE LONE WINTER

After the ice-cakes were all out I skimmed the frag-
ments, bushels of them, and plastered them on the igloo ;
and then stoo'd proudly aside and let the ponies come.
They swam their noses liberally round over the clear
water, and enjoyed it mightily. ... I don’t always skim
it so well as that. . . .

When I let Cressy out, she came across the yard in
three leaps; then she trotted clumsily round in a circle,
shaking first one hind foot and then the other, just as
we used to do in gymnastic class at recess. Only I don’t
think Cressy did it to take blood away from her brain!
Her feet were probably screaming, poor dear. She was
shaking her head, too, and there were bright red rims
around her eyes. She really looked, for so mild a lady,
quite dangerous. I persuaded her up to the trough, — she
was in no hurry to drink, this morning, — and she put her
lips most -gingerly to the water, wetting them a little, then
fondly licking her nose to warm it, drawing in great
whistling breaths exactly as some people do when the
tea is too hot, and finally beginning to swallow in huge,
apprehensive swallows. When she had had enough, and
looked nice and smooth and blown up (after what R. L. S.
would call “this internal cold aspersion”!), she backed
away, shaking and twisting her head, jumping angrily
about, and shivering so terribly that I said, against all
custom, “Want to come in right now, Cressy?” She
put down her head, gave a hop and a sort of suppressed
bellow, as much as to say, “Do I ? . . .” and simply flew
for the door.

I found an old horse-blanket and put it on her. She
may decide to make a lunch of it, — Cressy adores dry-
goods, — but it will warm her up for a while.

[i5i]

THE LONE WINTER

The horses, too, when let out, were full of tempera-
ment and “pep,” chasing the ponies in every direction
and hopping great uncouth hops with their fore legs some-
where up behind their ears. Donlinna had three of her
heart-felt rolls, one after another, bumping down upon
the snow with loud groans, agitating wildly back and forth
with all possible legs in the air, then jumping up with
a venomous expression, to stretch her nose extravagantly
out and shake every atom of that unconscionable cold
snow from her beautiful, glossy, chestnut coat, by gum!
. . . And then she wheeled upon Sir Dignity, who was
sunning himself by the shed door, chased him at top
speed over the highest salt-rocks, up to the bar-way,
round the entire circuit of the yard, and back to his shed
door again.

Very early, I took them all in. They fell, thankfully,
upon cold-wave rations of hay, and had a dose of grain
all round. As for Cressy, I kept her munching all day
long. It distracts her mind from her troubles, and as
I pass by she regards me with a touching look of approval.

* * *

Evening.

Just before chore-time this afternoon, a problem pre-
sented itself. There was no bread in the house. “That ’s
simple,” I said, going blithely into the pantry; and had
got my corn-bread as far as its moment for baking-
powder, when, alack, the tin was empty. Here was a
facer. The sun had set; it was already thirteen below
zero; my mail was in the box at the corner, and I was
going after that on snow-shoes ; but, oh, should one have
to ride all the way to the village, cocked up in a sightly

[152]

THE LONE WINTER

saddle, in that sweeping wind, after five teaspoonfuls of
baking-powder ?

* “I ’ll borrow !” I said firmly. “I ’ll go to my neighbor’s
and ask her for that, and ten matches !” For — as I knew
would happen — I had forgotten those, too. So Goliath
and I started, with explosions of rapture on his part,
and perpetual offer of sticks. I cast them recklessly for
him — into the woods, across the crevasse .of the brook,
down steep banks, into smothering drifts; and ever he
gamely returned them — or it, rather, the same chewed
but cherished bit of yellow birch he had first found and
brought me. No other would do. His face was ab-
surdly white with snow, his breath coming in gasps, but
still, dancing before me, he held his treasure pleadingly
up and departed yelping after it.

Soon we were being welcomed in my neighbor’s kitchen.
Hot doughnuts were pressed upon us.

“What do you eat?” she asked compassionately, as
she packed up my supplies. (Because I am doing a few
other things up here, besides eat, everybody is very sorry
for me, and thinks I starve!) “Toast, I suppose — and
coffee ”

“Oh, no !” I broke in proudly. “I have a perfect sys-
tem . . .” and went on to elaborate. My neighbor did
not seem impressed. She was a very long time making
up my parcel; and, when it was handed me, it was three
instead of one.

“Doughnuts — for your breakfast!” she urged, tucking
them maternally in my pocket. “And this — just some hot
gingerbread for your supper. Put a little whipped cream
on it!” she added, smiling. “Is your cow giving a pretty
good mess of milk now?”

0531

THE LONE WINTER

Out in the beautiful clear afterglow, with the evening
star gleaming and a bright half-moon silvering the snow,
we trudged happily home. How kind these people are!
Those doughnuts — they made a beautiful hotness in my
pocket, all the way up the road.

Later, when my children were all in bed, the lamps
lighted, the fires bright, Goliath and Boo and I proceeded
to celebrate with a hot bacon supper. It smelled heav-
enly on such a night. The rabbit-pussy had his portion
in the kitchen. I afterward noticed him sitting upright
beneath the warm stove, contentedly washing his face.
At least, I supposed he was contented ; but in a moment
he came in, walked to my chair, looked beseechingly up
at me, and with a sound of dismay, a short a Maw!” sat
down on the rug and began to wash again. . . . Poor
boy! It was the bacon. He began with the end of his
nose, which I thought he would polish out of existence,
such was his bitter earnest. Round and round went that
anguished paw, with a shudder of effort as it crossed
the offending spot ; eighteen strokes I counted, before he
even reached an eyebrow ! Then the other side was simi-
larly treated. After the top of his head was reached and
dealt with, he paused a moment, sighing, then suddenly
leaped into his chair and started once more on the tip
of that unfortunate nose!

“I shall never be clean — never !” * said his despairing-
little round face, stopping to stare dolorously at me. My
heart went out to him.

“Boo !” I cried. “You ? re clean ! Come on down and
see Big Missis !” and with a “Pr-oo ! ” of relief he came,
accepting dry bread from my fingers, and strewing the
rug liberally with crumbs. He felt better after that.

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THE LONE WINTER

Bread, he found, is a good eraser; and, planting both
elbows benignly in my lap, he leaned upon me, and
purred and beamed.

I know exactly how he felt. I feel so after one of
my sporadic attacks of dish-washing, when — though I
don’t sit down on the rug and say “Maw!” (which I
should much like to) — I scrub prolongedly with scented
soap, then lapse into a chair to purge my soul with
literature. ... I wish I had been brought up to revel
in dish-water!

* * *

January 19.

To-day Polly and I have ridden miles into another town-
ship to call on a sick friend. The daughter of the family,
studying to be a teacher, has developed delicacy of lung
and must have absolute rest ; so she spends her days on
a cot by the window, worrying because she is losing time
at school.

Conversation, however, which in this family is usually
free and joyous, was much dampened by the presence
of another visitor — a huge, well-aproned person, knitting
steadily, who closed a determined mouth and was mono-
syllabic, eying my riding-clothes with calm disdain. The
girl’s mother seemed ill at ease; she also knitted, but
spasmodically, with sudden dartings into the kitchen.
The girl herself, in her cot, incessantly ruffled the pages
of the Stevenson I had brought her — I have always taken
such care of that edition ! — and looked perversely out of
the window ; but I plowed in, rehearsing tales that might
set the invalid’s mind traveling a bit — telling things very
badly, scrabbling along, aware always of that judging

[i5S3

THE LONE WINTER

figure in the vast blue apron, with the small, stony eyes,
the slot of a mouth in the broad face, the thick, busy
hands. That awful sense of inner blankness which always
seizes me in the presence of un-understanding, fairly had
me by the throat ; and after a few efforts I felt myself
gradually running down — declining helplessly upon the
weather. . . .

At this the aproned person smiled. She even entered
the conversation. Weather we had, whooping-cough, the
pattern of sweater sleeves, gossip, weather again — until
she rose, gathered her knitting, and took majestic leave.
. . . Blick ! An indefinable lightning seized us, and, turn-
ing merry eyes upon me, the girl and her mother launched
into repartee and ease. We absolutely gabbled! The
pages of Stevenson had no more ruffling. ...

But I rode away, fuming at myself. Gump! To be
flattened by an illiterate — no, she was n’t that — but . . .
just somebody in a huge apron. . . . Ass! And yet I
absolutely could n’t help it. . . . Funny !

* * *

January 22.

Very warm again; the nimble thermometer has leaped
sixty degrees. The sky is soothingly gray; a few drops
of rain have fallen. By the feeling, Summer is i-cumen
in ! and everybody is let down. The ponies are moping in
the yard ; even busy Donlinna runs up to me to ask what
the trouble is, and rub her nose irritably on my shoulder.

. . . Bally Beg’s igloo has melted alarmingly, lowering my
wall of defense; but he has not noticed it yet. Let us
hope he will not. The watering-trough is unwontedly
bland,, its, ring of; ice smoothed by warmth, till it lacks,

[* 5,61

THE LONE WINTER

exactly like a white marble fender we had in my child-
hood round an English hearth — so nice to lay one’s cheek
on ; and my chopping labors were limited to shoveling out
a few inches of anchor-ice and pasting them on the igloo.
. . . There is a softness on my path to the barn that
means woe on the road, and horses slumping in to their
knees. I am conscious of mail accumulating in the box,
and an arrears of packages at the stage-driver’s.

For the smash has come. The smash I had feared, on
the wood-pile; and I have had to wail to neighbors for
help. Such a come-down! Three evenings ago I was
clambering across that bodeful mountain with a great arm-
ful of chunks ; it was a horribly cold night in that wood-
shed, and I resolved to make one trip of it— was wood
to my chin. Crash! and I was sitting down, clutching
my enormous armful. With an awful struggle, I got up,
still clinging to those chunks. . . . Dropping them in the
wood-box, I leaned there, gasping. A most horrible, tear-
ing pain somewhere in the middle of one’s chest, or just
below. A rib? A ligament? I sat down, clutching
it. . . .

In the morning, bent over like an old man, I crept to
the barn. The pain of getting hay! Fork a little, then
lean over and gasp. A little more ... a little more. . . .
And climbing ladders! Pushing through doors with a
load! Leading high-spirited horses! ... In the house
once more, I lay down. In the humiliating middle of
the afternoon I began to make ready for night. Every-
thing took so long — was so slow. . . . For minutes at a
time I had to lie flat on the hay. In milking, if Cressy
hadn’t let me lean against her when everything went
black, I should have fallen — in the milk-pail, I fancy!

[1573

THE LONE WINTER

For I was bound not to have in any help. Bound!

The next afternoon I had promised my wood-choppers
to go out to the woods and tell them what more trees
to cut. They had “got down the dead-wood an’ the down-
wood,” and now awaited instructions. (They know how
terribly fussy we are about having anything cut, in those
precious woods!) There was a depth of mealy snow; the
weather had been too cold to pack it; and so my snow-
shoes sank deep. Pulling them out— oh! I went pain-
fully up the slopes. ... In the woods it was worse
nothing packs there; one floundered in untold depths.
Beautiful— the laden hemlocks! the snowy stretches
among the gray trunks; but, leaning against a friendly
great beech, I nearly sobbed. Wood-piles were here and
there ; axes leaning on them ; but no choppers ! I floun-
dered in all possible directions ; I called. No answer.
And I had come all the way up — and it hurt so. . . .

Going home, I fell repeatedly in drifts. There was
no telling how far in one would plunge. Goliath helped
all he could — with such a worried, snowy face! On my
knees in a sudden hollow, I had to laugh and hug him,
he looked so woebegone. The winter dusk was coming
down; so without rest, I had to go to the hay-loft and
prepare for night. . . . That terrible, menacing climb!
I had forgotten about it. But there it was, facing me —
the high, quaking comer of that untouched precipice of
hay. Up the ladder, till my head was under the hole in
the scaffold — then how? The top of the mow was level
with the big scaffold-beam over my head; one couldn’t
crawl beneath the beam, which projected frontward, be-
cause solid hay was there. Over the beam then! It
was like surmounting a bulge on a precipice. . . . Dizzi-

[iSB]

THE LONE WINTER

ness began, but I shook it off, staring fiercely at the
high diamond window, the cobwebs, the swallows’ nests —
anything — up! ... At last I was flat on my stomach on
the beam. Wiggle ! and don’t look down to the left — that
hideous drop into far blackness ... or behind. ... At
last, face down, I fell upon the mow. The corner of
the precipice. . . . Cautiously — for it was quaking be-
neath me — I crawled away . . . and collapsed.

This morning, when I saw my neighbor’s wood-sled,
and two boys on it, coming plunging through the drifted
lane, I hobbled out to explain. My voice suddenly be-
gan, to my great indignation, to shake — and I bolted into
the barn and cried abjectly on the work harnesses! The
boys were so nice, so serious and commiserating; and
went about their jobs so earnestly. ... I looked va-
cantly about. Nothing to do — might as well go in; a
strange feeling at this time of day! So I hobbled along
to the house ; and, on meeting Gli’s ever-sympathetic and
inquiring wags, sank down on a kitchen chair and wept
again! The rains descended and the floods came! . . .
and I should have had a perfectly beautiful time sitting
there dissolved in tears, except that poor Goliath was
beside himself with worry, and jabbing frantic kisses at
the top of my head. So 1 had to stop and assure him
all was well. He sat up on his hind legs at that — Gli usu-
ally loathes being on his hind legs — and very proudly
presented me with two paws, one after the other, flinging
each paw high in the air as he did so. Holding the paws,
I told him that Missis was going in to sit down a bit, and
would he come, too? He would, very waggingly; so he
flumped down on his rug (looking gratefully up at me,
for no reason whatever!), and I in my chair with a book,

[ 159 ]

THE LONE WINTER

and the storm-center passed over, and has been heard
from no more!

* * *

January 23,

The broken-in-two feeling is less noticeable; my kind
neighbors have been over making everything easy. I have
ridden Polly at a walk to the corner and back, admiring
the brook and woods which I had n’t seen for days; and
now a snow-storm has cleared away to a beautiful soft
evening, with a great moon rising over the hills, and a
real scent of spring in the air. I stepped out upon the
porch, and had an illusion of summer moonlight, with the
calm blue sky, the balmy air, and the loud sound of the
little waterfall beyond the orchard. Bare tree-tops, moon-
lit snow on the hills, told a different story; but Tlooked
up and felt the summer; and a thrill of longing crept
over me. ...

* * *

January 24 .

Sunday. A great peace, a Sabbath calm, is upon us
this morning. I did n’t have strength to mention it last
night, but all day life in the house had moved to a sound
of many waters ... at least it grew to be many, before
night! Early in the morning a gentle chantey— from the
direction of the kitchen— was heard ; on opening the door,
I beheld a busy drip descending faithfully from over-
head pipes, upon the center of my stove. The stove was
moist; indeed, rims of rust had already begun to form
about the pools upon its surface. I fetched an enamel
bowl from the pantry.

[160]

THE LONE WINTER

After breakfast, I brought a supplementary pail; the
drip was extending. Later, a tin pan and a wash-tub;
then a second pail and another bowl! This downpour
was, as usual, a thing of mystery, arriving from an extinct
hot-water pipe supposedly disconnected in November f
After the freeze, I knew connections up above must be
deranged, had looked with dread for a Niagara; but by
noon I should have infinitely preferred the downright-
ness of a Niagara to the Chinese gradualness of this drip.
How long, at the rate of about twenty-five drips a min-
ute, would it take to empty a two-barrel tank? For it
was evidently the tank that was descending on us; mere
melted pipefuls would have given out long ago.

I need not have worried. By three o’clock the gentle
chantey had risen to a fierce splashing which kept one
hastening to the aid of the dancing contents of agitated
receptacles. In summer we bemoan the fact that our
tank holds so little; now, for resource and enthusiasm,
it might have been the town reservoir itself. Even the
distant windows were splashed ; and, when I found a mo-
ment to bolt into my study for relief, the chief charm
of that useful room seemed to be that it was — dry ! Even
as I opened the door, dryness smote me blessedly; into
a dry chair I sank, and held dryness — a most interesting
book on War in the East — in my hand; too soon, how-
ever, being obliged to throw it down with the ejaculation,
“Jminy ! those pails !”

The noise, too, was distressing. Plop, plip, plunk, plop
— plinkity-plop, plick, plock . Such a wet noise !

At 9 p. m., as I was resignedly wondering how long
one would have to sit up to hold the hand of the plumb-
ing, and preparing to dash out and empty things — a sud-

[161]

THE LONE WINTER

den silence struck me. It was, after previous watery
tumult, a most loud silence. I opened the door and peered
unbelievingly in. For the first time that day, one could
see across the kitchen without looking through splashing
wet veils. A broad smile crept upon my countenance.
Though the poor stove had draped itself in an orange
robe of rust, and rusty pools stood in the worn furrows
of my historic, hundred-year-old floor, I felt as happy, in
that eloquent silence, as if the Angel of Peace had passed
by. . . , Chants and chorals were sounding in that quiet-
ness ; and, wheeling upon glad heels, I went hastily to bed.

Mops could wait till to-morrow!

This morning, I could scarcely believe I should not
be greeted with deluge — it still so rang in my ears; but
the same silence and rusty pools met me as before; so
over the dining-room fire I made coffee and crisp, Sun-
day-morning toast, and felt rewarded for all my troubles.
What a blessing mere silence is! The sun has come
warmly out, and a lovely, blue-white-and-gold day is be-
fore us.

Friday’s paper, at breakfast, was as thrilling as if hot
off the press; there were more burglaries and government
scandals than ever. I felt just like burglaries. . . . And
a nice, kind, million-dollar fire, which hurt nobody, and
had dramatic ice all over the front of it. At least, of
its picture. Lovely weather for fires, of late. Ice some-
how fails to put them out very well.

And now, though I feel as if I had only begun the
morning, it is time to feed the cow her dinner. ... It
always is. Goloshes, my dear! and (for the ten-millionth
time this winter) put a hat-pin in your hat, for a gale is
blowing. . . . Run along!

[162]

THE LONE WINTER

Later.

It is now afternoon, and April-like. A snow-storm has
just come sliding across one side of our valley; on the
other, the woods are bright in the sun. Snow-flakes
whirled up to the edge of the terrace, hesitated, and
whirled off again, tumbling over stone walls, and tangling
themselves in the tall, thin lines of trees. Now they are
swiftly pouring down the valley. A patch of blue sky,
with films of gray scurrying across it, still hangs over
the woods.

A gray squirrel has gone loping below our garden. He
is on a mission to his pear-tree, in the little orchard. . . .
Now he is loping back again, with staccato hops, making
for the big elm where I think he lives. I wonder what
he finds in that pear-tree; every day I see him making
a trip there, staying but a brief time, and hurrying back.
Another favorite parade of his is across the stone wall at
the bottom of our field — a sightly wall, commanding a
stretch of valley. He makes fine, circular leaps there;
and he and his bushy tail stand out against the whiteness.

Alas ! The mountains, that had so nicely vanished, are
disgustingly clear and blue. The snow-storm has gone
quite away. We needed it. We need a big one. Our
snow is tired-looking, not dazzlingly white as it was. Its
surface is fretted with thaws; too many rocks stick up;
in shallow spots, tufts of brown grass are showing. That
is positive decadence, for mountain snow; too much like
the sickly behavior of snow in other places.

The gray squirrel has come back to the little orchard,
and is loping intimately, though somewhat aimlessly,
about. I thought wild animals always had stern and tre-

[163]

THE LONE WINTER

mendous purpose in what they do ! But this squirrel goes
up a pear-tree, journeys out upon a branch, stares round
him, scratches his ear — and slides down again. Not a
very accomplishing trip. And he has done it dozens of
times. He did once find something on the snow, and sat
up executively and ate it; then ambled comfortably out
under a pearmain-tree and captured a frozen rotten apple
(a lovely treat) , with which he hopped proudly off ! Gray
squirrels are rare up here, as rare as their red brothers
are plentiful.

Any wild life is the more noticeable just now because
this has been such a birdless winter. So far, except for
a sudden storm of chickadees in the terrace cedars, —
somersaulting and dee-dee-dee - ing apparently in the high-
est of spirits, and accompanied by one very showy wood-
pecker with a bright scarlet head, — which storm passed
away into the orchard and has not been seen since! — I
have noted exactly one small brown bird. This speci-
men, a sparrowish-looking individual, was extremely
busy for a few hours between the hay barn and an elder-
berry-bush by the wall ; but even he has disappeared, and
I begin to feel that something has gobbled all our little
friends. Or perhaps they haven’t yet come down from
the north ! Usually we have social flocks of juncos peck-
ing about, snow-birds swooping over the drifts, and once
a flqpk of the rare, fugitive, Bohemian waxwings. At
the head of our mowing lane is a wild cherry-tree, and, as
we approached it I exclaimed, noting an unusual appear-
ance in its upper branches, “See the leaves still left on that

ch !” and stopped short. It was birds! Twirling

thickly about, just like cherry-leaves in a wind; coming
nearer, we saw their crested heads, the yellow and white

[164]

THE LONE WINTER

on their wings. They seemed tame, making queer soft
sounds at each other, like “Hush— hush !” and forever
shifting and jumping about on their twigs. The bird-
book remarked they had a habit of “appearing where least
expected, and utterly deserting other places where they
are usually found,” and so we stared at them devoutly.
It was well we did. We have never seen one since ! . . .

Ha ! At dusk, the snow-storm caught us again with a
wild whirl, pouring down in blinding floods between my
window and the orchard. For some moments Goliath had
been sneezing, wagging, making pretty-bows, and other-
wise uneasily suggesting that his Missis would better go
get in horses, instead of staring out of the window; but
I could not help wondering whimsically whether one would
lose one’s way, as in Western blizzards, and sink down,
lost, ten feet from the door ! The horses were all a-thrill
with the whistle of the storm ; I just had time to flatten
myself against the pig house wall, and they came charging
excitedly in, the three that belong in the lower stable
seeming especially hectic. Instead of going orderly along
toward the door as usual, Dolly rushed into Donlinna’s
stall, and, on poor Donlinna’s inserting a suggestive shoul-
der, kicked out at her; Donlinna fell hysterically back-
ward upon the grain-chest, caroming into the Maharajah,
who reared and fell down upon Polly, who in turn re-
treated violently and mashed a file of ponies innocently
advancing behind her ; and for a helpless moment I could
only stand and bellow calming remarks, with the long,
narrow barn one flashing melee of heads, manes, and
whirling forms, while a rush of frightened ponies bur-
rowed frantically under my arm, crying, “For heaven’s
sake, let us out of this !”

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Inserting myself delicately among agitated hocks and
tails, I made my way to the front door, murmuring: “So,
Polly! Whoa, Pud! It's only me, Donlinna darling \”
at last managing to open it, and steer a wildly breathing
trio of invaders out into the snow. Then I ran back to
reassure the rightful inhabitants. Donlinna’s sides were
heaving, her eyes flashing, but she lifted her beautiful
head and followed me, breathing a sigh of relief to find
herself in her own stall.

“Darling Donny!” I cried, hugging her, “a shame, to
knock her over like that!” whereat, fairly whimpering
with solicitude, she allowed me to examine all her legs.
She had punched a hole in the lid of the grain-chest with
one of them, but not a scratch was visible. Any other
horse but a Morgan would have been badly hurt. With
a final kiss on her worried nose, I hastened away to con-
sole Elizabeth. The eyes of that baby ! They were ringed
with terrified white ; and it took a whole course of sooth-
ing, supper, and blandishments before they were restored
to anything like calm. Even then, she clung closely to
her mother; there was no wandering away for a little so-
cial nibble of hay with Queen or Sunny; and whenever
a pail dropped to the floor, or any loud sound occurred,
Elizabeth jumped and gasped. Our young nerves had
been badly shaken !

The tumult having ceased, I was pushing my way out
of the rear door with hay for the yard ponies, when —
ye gods, the full moon! Its light took me in the face,
and for a moment I could only blink. I had thought it
was snowing hard ! But there, in a clear dark-blue streak
under the illuminated, dusty tail of the storm, the moon
had come up over .the knoll, which stood up sharp and

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black. The lane glittered, a path of twisting silver ; wully
wa’s frisked and smoked across the hills, and a fringe
of beautiful gold-brown dust was flung upon the cloud,
which hung above that belt of blue and the golden crea-
ture rising in it.

I stood, staring, till several impatient pulls, as of a hun-
gry fish, at my load, recalled me, when with grunts of
“Get out! Go ’long!” to my scampering escort, I made
my way across the yard. Never before had one seen a
full moon thus on the tail of a snow-storm; and, before
we had reached the pony house, swoop! came a great gust,
a mop of angry cloud blotted over, and the lane was black
again.

The last glimpse, near midnight, I had of that impulsive
moon, was of her plunging into masses of creamy-colored
cloud, out again into vivid blue, while below moon-spots
scudded across snowy hills and valleys. Often, patches
of woods lay black beside strips of flying silver ; and, for
a wonderful moment, the entire landscape was dark save
for one lone hill, which shone out brilliant above the
gloom. Some one, I thought, should have stood on it,
and preached to the flying, shadowy world. And I trudged
up-stairs with my bedroom candle, murmuring, . I
heard a sound as of a silver horn on all the hills . . ”
Indeed, a night for the Holy Grail ! . . .

* * *

January 25.

Again the uncertain thirties have yielded to a solid zero,
and the world is a-crack with cold. Even my bed seemed
a shivery spot this morning; so by a pale, surreptitious
sunrise I was already down, shuddering, and poking at

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the fire. But there is something tangible to combat in
the intense touch of the bitter wind ; and combat is good
for the soul. One grows dreary, with the steady un-
eventful tug of foolish physical difficulties — of forever
calculating physical puzzles: how to chop the thick ice
out of the trough without using that absurd frontispiece ;
how to throw down the daily hay, carry in wood, and
transport Kim’s buckets of water, and still avoid, as I ’m
told to do, the lifting of any weights !

These have been very real problems ; and, though I have
tried to obliterate them with moons, skies, Elizabeth, and
other delightful appurtenances of farm life, sometimes
these charms seem, to my dismay, to be wearing a little
thin. There was even one horrid moment when, on
issuing with an unwisely heavy load from the cow barn
door, I found myself looking coldly upon that vision of
the moon-lit lane with its glitters, its crooked fence, its
blown, etched-in-purple trees, which usually stirs me to
the heart. Appalled, I made my way soberly back. If
these things fail me in my little private war here, — a war
against fatigue, pain, and the pull of a long solitude, — it
will be asking a great deal of my other resources — Bab’s
letters, literature, and an occasional, brave, and shivering
friend — to see me through !

But it is a war; and that thought makes one’s very
nerves brustle up, responding to well-remembered stimu-
lus. (What impossible things we all did do— that winter
of real war !) The joy of this life is to be strong — to
stride off for miles on a snowy tramp, leap into one’s
saddle for a gallop, handle wild steeds by agility and the
foretop only! Deprived of these gaieties, and dragging
painfully around on mere routine, my war, I see, is to

[168]

become a real one. Everything one does here seems to
take such a lot of what Kipling calls “essential guts” ; and
I have so few left. . . .

Fifteen below zero, however, is a help, and gives a
thrill to things. Hooray for the north pole ! I had to put
that blanket on Cressy this morning, and must remember
to run out and see whether she is eating it. A little dry-
goods does n’t matter — a saddle-pad, or a surcingle ; she
digests those without harm; but a whole blanket, bright-
red bindings and all, might be rather much. Would she
give pink milk, I wonder. Pink milk, with safety-pins
in it?

Afternoon.

My supplies are getting amusingly low, for the reason
that I simply had not heart to ask my kind neighbors,
in the face of this arctic blast, to make the trip to the
village. There happened to be bread enough; thanks to
my shivering Cressy (who had started on the blanket),
there is invariably milk, and its by-products; prunes I
seem to have always with me, and sugar and coffee. Also
two lone eggs, which I assured myself would be enough
for dinner. But in peering about my icy pantry I came
upon a find: rice, boiled when I last had any domestic
energy, and now preservatively frozen solid — and veal
steak, also in a stiffly glacial condition.

Joyfully, therefore, I put the rice on to melt, the veal
steak to re-broil. I don’t know why, but there is always
an extra savor about food that has been frozen. Frozen
bread, thawed, is far better than new; and then there is
the moral satisfaction of salvage — of discovering riches
where apparently all was bare. ... So with a pot of

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Russian tea, and a slice of providentially unfrozen lemon,
I sat down to an excellent, even a recherche, meal. Oh,
the vividness of fresh country veal, broiled (or re-
broiled!) over scarlet wood-coals!

Meals, however earnestly one may try to ignore them,
are cheering. (I am quite sure now that the absurd fron-
tispiece will mend itself automatically!) Boo-boo has
added to my optimism by sitting faithfully by my chair,
loudly wheezing. He had not been fed, but was living
over that moment in expectation; sometimes he pulled
ever so gently at my hand. He and Goliath are very
touchingly devoted, these days of close association; and
Boo has learned to be amusingly discr imina t ing on laps.
Hoisting himself on hind legs, he peers delicately over.
“Pr-oo? Skirts to-night?” he inquires, with the fun-
niest, scrutinizing expression in his round, yellow eyes.
If inspection is satisfactory, “Pr-ow ! ... All right !” he
concludes, and jumps up, settling himself thankfully down
— while, from mere glee, I ruffle all his impudent hair
the wrong way. If it had been a trouser-lap he would n’t
have come. No, indeed. He descends, with a sad and
baffled look; stalks over to his tapestried chair, eying me,
meanwhile, with melancholy. And I shake with mirth.
These cat-comments on one’s apparel!

Such passionate sleeping as does go on in the eve-
ning! Boo with his whiskers twitching; Goliath with
his legs stretched out stiffly, and his head close to my
foot-stool — an article very necessary in this Old house,
where three inches of solid cold can be relied on, nearest
the floor. Last night, the foot-stool made a loud scrape,
and Gli started nervously up. I smiled at him ; at once
his face cleared, and, wagging an apologetic tail, he lay

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down again, looking up with an expression of devoted
confidence. We had told each other a great deal in
those two looks. . . .

A dog with whom one has such moments ceases to
be a dog; he is an individual, lifted to real intimacy.
When sudden sounds interrupt our peaceful evenings —
a thundering of pony feet, perhaps, where no pony
feet should be, “Did you hear that, boy?” I ask; and for
an instant we stare into each other’s eyes. Then we rush
unitedly to the door. Goliath whimpers behind me with
feverish zeal — can hardly wait for the door to be opened
— and together we go into the night. Sometimes it is
“Drive ’em, boy!” and a hullabaloo of wild barks and
scuttling hoofs; more often we come resultlessly back,
looking into each other’s baffled faces. . . . “Did n’t see
anything, did you?” And I resume my book, and the
collie his ever-adjustable nap, with one more bond, one
more shared worry, between us. For that dog does
worry. I see it in his eyes; and anybody that is sweet
enough to worry with you — why, there are few people
in the world one counts upon for that !

* * *

January 28.

A series of letters have been coming from the South,
with pressed flowers falling out of them. Violets, a
creamy Cherokee rose, a spray of yellow jasmine, fresh-
colored and fragrant — they give one longings to go where
they grow; the banks of the St. John’s. I long for the
river walk — a winding pink path, under enormous live-
oaks whose streaming mosses, at sunset, sway like live
flames; where the rough-barked pitch-pines, their heads

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almost in the clouds, are bright with golden jasmine, and
the scarlet of the trumpet-vine peers from the snow-white
bloom of a wild plum. From across the pale-blue stream
blows an ineffable scent — orange-groves in blossom on the
other shore ! It seems to pour in at you with the sunlight
dazzling up into the cool wood-shadows from the blue and
yellow of the shore.

At any turn appear conversational pigs — half-wild crea-
tures of all sizes, from the grunting mama, to babies who
can run like deer, and are spotted with guinea-pig colors ;
at sight of you, they dive shrieking into the forest, or
downward to the sheltering, brown-kneed cypress-stumps
of the river-edge. Overhead, cardinal-birds perch on gray
pine-boughs that frame their vividness, as they divinely
“sweetheart” at you; and always the open forest, astir
with mystery, stretches away pale-brown under oak limbs
that are but a garden for ferns.

The plantation, with its while-pillared house, wide
lawns sloping to a great sweep of the river, and quaint
darky servants, — the oldest of whom had once been
slaves upon this very spot, — had about it a sweetness of
the old South ; an unworldly, gracious charm. I can smell
those Cherokee roses now, and that wet scent of Spanish
moss after rain; the wild phlox that reddened the blow-
ing grass, and the whiffs from the kumquat orchard just
over the white, jasmine-hung walls of the swimming-pool
— that sparkling pool, like aquamarine under the sunlight,
rippled with shadows from oak-boughs overhead. Before
days of swimming-pools, one swam in the brown water at
the end of the wharf, meanwhile waving a stick at atten-
tive alligators — who fled, I am told, abjectly. But the
coffee-brown water — brown as demi-tasse, though only

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coming from cypress-roots, and from recruiting miles of
deep, black, silent swamp-acres, pink with wild azalea —
was not pretty enough for Northern tastes ; it needed too
much explaining ; and now every one shudders at the idea
of plunging into that alligatory stream.

It looked harmless enough to us ; Babs, being then at
the paddling age, paddled, industriously in its yellow
verge, where appeared nothing more alarming than flying-
fish, pigs, or deep-sea Floridian cattle, grazing on weeds
with their heads far under water; and I set up an easel
on the sands below the tall banks, with a row of baby
cypresses for models, and a mad, tropic light glinting up
at them from the water. They had lovely, Arthur Rack-
ham knees, brown and hobgobliny ; and one day as I was
seated there in front of an old stump, working
frenziedly under my white umbrella, something behind
me said “Ah-h-hh !” very softly. A pleasant, hushy voice,
much like the breath of wind in a pine-bough; but I
whirled abruptly round. Voices — of any sort — were rare
in those parts. Just at the foot of my camp-stool was a
fat coil of snake ; in its midst stuck up a flat, broad head.
The air of the creature was leisurely; but I was sitting
in his front yard ; it was evident that one or the other of
us must go. His expression was, to say the least, inquir-
ing; but finish my cypresses I must. I looked wildly
around. Stones there were none — I might have run to
Georgia to find one; but near me lay chunks of tough,
clayey, black sod, dried hard by the sun, that had rolled
down from the bank. Seizing one, I slammed it prayer-
fully down. To my astonishment, the creature collapsed ;
he undid himself ; his head was under my brick !

Greatly fearing he would come to, I feverishly un-
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jointed my umbrella, and with much distaste, and the
brass-shod point, hove the dangling thing into the St.
John’s. He sank. ... A small craft of river-hyacinth
sailing down-stream, with its glossy, green mains’l
trimmed to the breeze, rocked a little as it passed. The
sole requiem of my spreading adder ! I felt a little sorry.
It had been nice of him to give me time to find a brick.
Soberly re jointing the umbrella, I set to work on
cypresses again.

Many things I have tried to do, with many lights upon
them — dunes and marshes and snow-scenes and harbor-
dawns ; but never anything so lovely and so maddening as
those streams of moss under sunset. I spent many days
by one particular tree, a noble tree with a hundred- foot
spread of limbs, on which grew a flourishing tree-garden
of hardy ferns. It was far out the river walk, and the
pigs grew to know me. But pigs did n’t matter — or ferns,
or the oak-tree; those baffling, soft, yet brilliant streamers
swayed with the wind, each one holding itself differently
to the light — a last, low flame ; and the moss, ghost-gray
by day, at this hour went rose and crimson and fire-gold,
sometimes shifting back into ghostliness again. At mo-
ments, however, it flamed ; and that flaming instant I was
bound to catch. . . .

Working in guache, too! An unflame-like medium.
Several times the bath-tub had received that panel, reduc-
ing its sins to wan and pleasant ghosts ; and sometimes as
I hurried homeward, grasping it, through twilight woods,
— where “white ladies” were not supposed to linger, — I
cast a threatening eye on that larger bath-tub, gleaming
through the trees! ... If I didn’t get that light right
pretty soon ! . . . But at the very last of my patience a

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sudden flick or two of the brush, quite casual, as success-
ful things often are, seemed to do it. And I had fully
expected to watch that panel on its way to Jacksonville !

I was unusually late that night. Dusk had almost
fallen. Glancing apprehensively about as I gathered my
things, I caught the sound of soft trampling in the bushes
near by; my blood suddenly chilled, (They do tell one
such bugaboo stories, to warn one out of the woods!)
The rustling drew nearer; I stood stupidly transfixed,
clasping my camp-stool ; in an instant, a dark head thrust
itself through the branches, and a great red bull was eying
me! Then with a snort he went crashing off. Florida
bulls are simple souls; they roam the woods unfettered;
harmless, because free. But, for the fright this one gave
me, he might have been ten thousand villains with guns I

Another day, when I was harmlessly doing plum-blos-
soms, — snow-drifts of them, against gray and brown
woods, — again a rustling in near-by shrubs interfered
with concentration. (One somehow felt nervous in those
woods. Up North, things can rustle if they want to!)
Was it a grazing beast ? Grazing, however, was not good ;
pig-acorns there were not, nor hanging moss for cattle;
and the wretched rustling grew gradually, softly, nearer.
I was just grasping my camp-stool to rise to find out what
it was, when another head poked through the leaves — this
time the bowing, smiling head of Thomas, our good old
darky butler, with his gray wool, his blue jumper, and his
arms full of lilies, orchids, and jasmine. Thomas always
arranged the flowers, and did it with flawless taste. I was
very glad to see Thomas. We had a brief, floral conver-
sation ; then, taking a gracious, smiling leave, he hurried
away (Thomas had the manners of a prince), and I

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turned to my work, resolved, after that, to let rustlings
rustle if they would. One bull, one butler, one kind-
hearted snake— my list of horrors in the South! . . .
Away from the river, I loved the other water-scenes:
wild pigs splashing through pools among the palmettos,
the slim head of a moccasin swimming across. Those
moccasins swam Black Creek as easily as they did a
puddle in the woods, and Black Creek is a serious stream,
black and silent and of unknown depth, that wound away
through watery forests — you couldn’t land in them;
you M splash ! — and unending swamps. If the river walk
was a trifle spooky, Black Creek with its darkly winding
tributaries, choked with hyacinth, was spookiness itself.
It was positively worth painting, so bodeful it was, and
hushed, and weird. Frivolous pink azalea hung over it in
the spring — but over a black shining of water. Even the
hoarse cry of a fish-hawk, sweeping his gray wings along
the stream, or poising on the dead limb of a cypress,
sounded ominous; and always, bordering these silent
streams, loomed glossy acres of hyacinth, blotting, blot-
ting as it went.

So — up here in our frosty world of silver and brown
and blue, with crusted hills that glitter under the sun, I
like to think of these warmer things ; these colors, yellow
and rose and mauve, that come to me with the dropping
of a spray of flattened jasmine out of an envelope ! Have
I not seen that jasmine swarming to heaven up a high
pitch-pine ? Have I not scented it far away, and found it
by its fragrance?

Everything looks so much more beautiful here now!
One has been up Black Creek. Been in blossoms. And

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THE LONE WINTER

just now, as I glanced out, Boo-boo looked perfectly
heavenly sitting on a gray stone. One had forgotten just
how lovely a yellow thing in a snow landscape is.

William James mentions the desirability of sometimes
going round the block a different way — or of putting the
left foot, instead of the right, into one’s trouser-leg first;
just so, in this life among beasts and drifts, I find it need-
ful to study variety. Of late I have studied it very hard.
I have a supper-scheme that works gloriously. When I
come in, tired, from the barn, at six o'clock, I lay a pretty
table, set out food that waiting won’t hurt, and stow hot
things in the oven. Then I fly up-stairs. Descending in
all the glory of brushed hair, slippers, and a fresh blouse,
I let myself — fastidiously — into the dining-room. Glanc-
ing at the table, I murmur, with surprised eyebrows, “Oh !
— she has forgotten to put on the — the truffles !” or what-
ever the piece de resistance may be; and step delicately
out and pluck it from the oven. I then make the most
serene of teas ; and rise with a grand feeling.

It actually does me good all up and down my spine,
that device. I feel rested “dear through.”

What infants we all are!

* * *

January 30.

Sunday. This morning, I did a sinful thing. I dozed !
Waking in grayness, with snow-flakes blotting out all cal-
culations as to sunrise, I turned over and went to sleep;
and nothing but a dream of my dear dog’s being in danger,
and barking violently in a queer canon made of cliffs and
tall houses, roused me. I started guiltily up ; those snow-

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flakes were descending upon broad morning; and when
at last, at the fearful hour of nine, I opened the door of
a scandalized barn, what a chorus greeted me !

Elizabeth and Queen had evidently been playing de-
spairing ball with my milk-stool. It was across the aisle,
upside down, with an injured expression. Elizabeth her-
self, also, was standing across the aisle, gazing at me
under her growing shock of silver foretop. A little whin-
ner came from her. Seizing a fork, I gave one brief pat
to Donny en passant — who hopped exasperatedly in the
air, then began to hammer on her wooden window.
Cressy, stretching a moist nose, breathed a loud
“Wh-hooo !” while Superb curved her neck in a despera-
tion of pawing.

I was so glad when they were all safely chewing. One
feels a beast to keep them waiting. They don’t know
what “Sunday feelings” are! I wish I could tell them.
It must be horrid to have all days alike. And not to know
things. . . . Just think; they can’t worry about Europe!
. . . They don’t know there is a Europe. They don’t
even know this farm is in America — or that it ’s a farm
— or that they are on it for anything in particular; oh,
dear! one gets quite desperate, thinking down and down
into all the things they don’t know.

I don’t wonder they are excited over food; that they
chew fences. If my mental world were as empty as
theirs, I should not only chew, I should assault every-
thing in sight, and get out, and run and run and run till
I found something different ! . . .

It is warm again, and snowing. Both are soothing to
one’s spirit. The thing one resents about winter is its
inactivity; the perpetual sameness of ice-armored hills

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and snow-blanketed woods. Great things, of course, may
be going on underneath; but nature wears a mask, is icily
non-committal. Moons shine, and suns ; they shine on a
dead world. There is no life but in the swing of the
winds, the mad dance of wully wa’s, the arrival of still
more snow. And that is why, I suppose, one so delights
in these activities of the air ; why tracks in the snow are
precious beyond words; why the note of a bird is an
event. . . . They mean life. My heart leaps up when I
behold — a chickadee on a twig! A rainbow, I think,
would leave me comparatively cold. One has plenty of
things in the sky. One wants something nearer. My
whole being warms to tiny mouse-traces under the hem-
locks by the brook; to the serious leapings, the clutter of
little ideas scattered beneath some fruitful, brown-seeded
tree; to anything alive and busy. Seed catalogues —
which console some people at this season — are all very
well ; so are printed visions of any kind ; but I love better
nature’s own premonitions of life — green cones torn to
bits beneath a great, dark, pitch-smelling spruce ; a bit of
earthy bank melted in the sun, with yellow roots sticking
, out, white stones caught in the roots, and gray lichen
hanging over the edge. . . .

But the fall of the snow is something. It sent me to
sleep this morning. Fall, snow ! whiten the trees ! shroud
my dutiful footsteps, all the same size, I am so tired of
seeing — out to the barn and back, out to the yard, the
corn-crib, the trough, the sheds, and ever virtuously back.
Snow hard and deep ; I will go out and make fresh ones
in you. Bold, adventurous, new ones. Boo-boo and
Goliath and Cressy and the ponies will make new ones.
Then snow some more, I pray you, before those are old !

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January 31.

An exquisite morning, blue and golden and warm.
Soft, fluffy whiteness is everywhere. Everything is cov-
ered, rocks, trees, walls. ... A morning to make one
abashed at one’s mood of yesterday. I think it was the
glitter of the hills I was so tired of ; one does tire of
glitter, and these new, soft fields are a joy. One revels in
their beauty. I haven’t really reveled — for an age. . . .
Necessity has allowed me, of late, the half-mile walk to
our mail-box ; a ducky half-mile that winds down through
woods, wood-fragrance, sweet wood-silence, and a brook.
There are hemlocks and big yellow birches and white ones.
After leaving the woods, the road curves past leafy banks
— there is such an adorable one, all moss and roots and
gravel, sheltered by spruce-branches, and newly melted!
So nice of it to have melted this very morning. It dripped
as I passed. The wet roots were a bright orange.

I noticed, too, a flash of color in one of the birches, and
there were three woodpeckers, with scarlet bars on their
heads, pecking socially at the white bark, running agilely
round and round, and giving out little happy notes of
satisfaction. My sparrowish-looking bird was with them ;
and, in the branches of the next birch, two chickadees —
the second I have seen all winter — were also extremely
busy, whirling, twirking their small tails, casting vivacious
glances everywhere at once. “Dee-dee-dee !” remarked
one of them, catching sight of my motionless figure in the
road. “Dee!” responded the other; and they flew to a
tree directly over my head. There they alternately picked
at buds and coquetted downward at me till one of the
woodpeckers, a spruce, handsome fellow with highly-

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THE LONE WINTER

spotted wings and a head of splendid bright color, flew
into the same tree ; whereat they flitted away. That wood-
pecker was as unafraid as they, and went energetically on
with his hammering only a few feet from my upturned
face. As he clung, I could see his eye turn in its socket ;
the exquisite, almost invisible melting of one pearly body-
feather into another; the strenuous toes and braced tail;
the rapid flexing of the slim neck, and the slight resultant
disturbance in the patch of smooth scarlet feathers across
the head. It was a tense moment ; I felt as if I had him in
my hands ; and, when he flitted into a gray-green poplar
on the other side of the road, I found myself drawing a
needed breath. These birds had done me more good than
Florida! The glow of summer was about; and the warm
sun, putting a wash of gold on the spruces, seemed to be
visibly pulling out the buds of birch and willow. The
swamp-willow shoots were surely more orange and crim-
son than the day before ; while the wimpling and burbling
of the brook had the sweetness of a morning in May.

I can make “sour-dough” bread ! And the last impedi-
ment between us and life in the wildest of wild Wests is
removed. Hooray !

It happened by accident. I was out of everything ; the
roads were fearful; if one could only exist till another
morning without making that dreaded trip. With all her
trained delicacy of motion, Polly does shake me unbear-
ably going down the pitches ; and in this deep snow it is
too wallowy to walk far. Bother frontispieces, anyway!

Coming in late from the barn. I looked round the
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shelves. Eggs — fine ! Into the kettle went two. I
flapped up the lid of the bread-box — then remembered
that I had given Goliath my last half -loaf, that morning.
. . . My eggs were almost done. A breadless egg is to
me one of the impossibilities — and then, upon my per-
plexity, flashed the thought of cowboy cooks squatting
over a fire in the resourceless desert, and turning out de-
licious hot bread from the instantaneous frying-pan! . . .
I would run a race with my eggs! I had only the re-
motest idea how to make it, but I fairly dived into the
flour-tub, whirled up a sticky mass, flung it, shapelessly,
into the greased hot pan (all Western novels tell you about
that!), clapped a cover on it, and set it over the reddest
part of the fire. In an instant arose a slight aroma of
burning; hilariously I flung off the cover, and flapped
over my bread. Good gracious — it almost looked as if it
was going to be good. One had n’t expected that !

Out came the eggs, and were perched in their blue
egg-cup on the shelf of the stove. Hurry up, bread ! A
second odor of burning greeted me ; I reversed the pan,
and flapped out upon the waiting plate a roll of — some-
thing; something that had puffed up hot and light — that
smelled excessively good! Cocoa, eggs, jam — and this
toothsome product, white as sea-foam under a somewhat
charred exterior — how do cowboys do it without scorch-
ing, if the pan has to be so blazing hot?

Otherwise, it could hardly have been better; especially
as it was being eaten, not in a lamp-lit room, but far away
under the stars — to the tang of desert air, the sharp fra-
grance of the sage, the glow of a dying fire, the crunch and
stamp of beloved horses near by. . . . Our dream ! And
some day we shall do it, Babs and L No cowboys along,

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to look after horses and shoot rattlers and do all the really
interesting things — for now I can make sour-dough bread !
And above that significant roll on the blue plate, above
dishes and silver and all that makes for sophistication and
being bored, I grinned with triumph. . . .

* * *

February n.

Back again to my winter etchings. It seemed, after all,
wise to take the erring frontispiece to town, so for ten
days I have been in the city. Frontispiece stood it like a
lamb. The worst thing about the city nowadays, one
finds, is — the gasolene exhausts ! Passing cars throw out
clouds of blue, just as lovely a blue as my morning wood-
smoke, but vile-odored and poisonous. Who wants to
practise deep breathing after such a dose as that ?

How I missed my hay ! I had thought I should be glad
of a rest from it — but was gladder when I came back,
lifted the green, sweet-smelling bundles once more, and
stalked proudly about with them. All the good barn-
smells were delicious.. And the fresh morning scents ;
smoke of my wood-fire, toast before the blaze, the clean,
outdoor smell of Boo-boo’s wholesome fur, of Donlinna’s
warm, glossy neck. Warm noon odors — wet things
steaming in the sun; even the cold smell of sunset that
night spreads so suddenly over a snowy world — all sweet,
all breathable and dear.

But the noise and grime of town held the dark eyes of
my child, glowing bravely through it all ; and the faces of
friends, kinder than ever, unquenchably cordial in the
midst of the tumult in which they live. Town sucks me
up after a while ; my smile grows wan ; but these valiant

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spirits could still beam upon one. Perhaps they have
forgotten that there is any other way of living — any
sweeter place, than that discordant city. ... And yet,
strangely enough, its noise did not trouble me. I liked it.
It seemed all a part of the cordiality, the alertness, one
finds there. Trolleys roared and bing-banged along their
appointed ways, trucks hooted, traffic boomed; but, bar-
ring a wince or two, I found myself hastening quite gaily
through it all. There was a step beside me — that was the
secret; a buoyant young stride with which it is second
nature to keep pace, and to whose rhythm one could face
anything! With a triumphal tread we trod the six
boards of our pet Garden paths — two boards apiece, and
two to spare if you meet somebody. If you meet two
somebodies, swing in behind your child, child steps on
ahead, and you rejoin her again; just as we do on horse-
back when we meet anything. The horses are perfectly
automatic about it; Babs’s horse shoots ahead, my Polly
falls in in the rear, the thing passes, and Polly darts to
her place again. Nothing like a system. And it has
saved us in more than one “dam-tight” place — as the Babu
would call it. Even on the uneventful Garden boards,
however, dam-tight moments have not been lacking ; nar-
rowly have we escaped being shoved into the mud by rude
or hasty passers. But the system saves us !

Then we swing grandly along, in step once more ; to the
Esplanade for a sunset, across the Common to watch the
lights come out through the blue dusk of the trees ; then
to dine. Dinner in houses, in the feminine clubs with
which Boston abounds, in literary garrets all bent ceilings
and ink. I think we really liked those dinners best.
Et ego — I also have worked under bent ceilings, and

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dodged their jutting corners; inconvenient they may be,
but there is an atmosphere about them. . . .

After dinner we tried hard to remember such things as
school, and lessons, and early bed; but those Garden
boards led so easily to theaters, and symphonies — where
one could watch a baton really fall, and hear, not dream,
the divinity to follow — that English J and Science S and
other daily perturbations of my child’s normal life fell
somewhat in arrears. It was for nothing more frivolous
than a literary lecture, however, that I put off for one day
my return to the farm ; as with B ’rer B’ar in the persim-
mon-tree, it was a case of “jes’ one ’simmon mo’, and den
I ’ll go” ; so that was why I came home in a thick snow-
storm — seven wet, blinding miles of sticky snow a foot
deep, through which poor Dolly wallowed. There was ice
under the snow ; three times Dolly fell fiat. A headache,
which had fluttered about me, thereupon came on in great
surges; everything else grew vague, remote. . . .

Though fires were lighted, the house seemed airless,
desolate. I stared ruefully at my changed abode. How
empty it seemed ; how silent and meaningless ! Why come
back? why not stay with one’s beloved — with lights and
voices and cheerful greetings? . . . Plick! as if in re-
buke, went the chimney of my reading-lamp. Grievedly
I inspected it. The crack just stopped short of a com-
plete circle. “Perhaps it won’t break !” I murmured ; and
delicately adjusted it. Seven miles from a new chimney !
And I tiptoed about, expecting every moment a crash.
If it did blow up and set things on fire, could I put it out?
In a story I once read, the hero and heroine put out miles
of prairie fire by banging it with wet sacks. I had the
sacks, but not much to wet them in. A dribble from the

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spring pipe! And I moved worriedly about, trying to
arrange my dear house so it would look more familiar.
Why, in ten days, should it have so changed? ... A
great wave of headache answered, sending me reeling
into an easy-chair, where I smiled weakly at these in-
fidelities. “Wait a bit!” I advised my rebelling soul.
“Just wait till to-morrow morning !”

Boo-boo helped. He had been touchingly enthusiastic
about my coming back, leaping down the drive through a
foot of new snow to meet me ; and ever since he has been
rushing and pr-ooing round in great self-congratulation.
Every few minutes he pops up at his window to be let in,
and at tea-time outdid himself in devices for attracting
notice. He played madly with nothing at all ; he clutched
me with imploring claws ; with loud proos, he dashed up-
stairs and down again as fast; he coquetted with his
reflection in a mirror; and at last, with a final note of
appeal, vaulted upon a pile of typewriter paper on my
desk, stuck his head forward, and peered at me with such
a look of anxious affection that I burst into shouts of
mirth, and Goliath had to get up from his corner to see
what it was all about.

* * *

February 12 .

A glorious morning, headache gone, the house looking
itself again. It is Lincoln’s birthday ; but so lovely with
glistening fresh snow and blue skies that I quite forgot
what day it was. Up here, in fact, the year sails placidly
by ; except for pranks and bell-ringing at Hallowe’en, and
distant community doings on the Fourth, holidays seem
virtually non-existent. Last Thanksgiving my neighbors

THE LONE WINTER

were furiously drawing wood; on Christmas day they
were equally preoccupied. Time, especially team-time, is
precious. Work horses need rest in winter, but not too
much, or they “get soft,” and, besides, are “wasting feed.”
As the long winter wears on, that question becomes a
tragic one on many a farm. “Hay lastin’ pretty good ?”
one hears; and the depressed reply, “Naw. . . . Got to
buy before turnin’ -out time.”

This is the season, in fact, when, with all the affection
in the world, one becomes a trifle tried with the perpetual
appetites of one’s dearly-beloveds in the bam. Never
satisfied! Always reaching for more, delving for stray
spears as if they were gold-mines. In summer they have
other interests ; they grow shiny new coats, they bring up
babies, they play and frolic, they smash fences; but in
winter — they eat. As one leads them through the stable,
they stop abruptly to salvage treasure such as a solitary
straw beneath their feet, thereby jerking the halter from
one’s hand. Impish ones often seize this chance to dash
away — to some spot where you don’t want them to go,
usually somebody else’s stall, where they are in danger of
being brained by a kick ; altogether, it is a season of small
trials to the stock owner.

In this connection one might mention their going out
into the yard after a breakfast that has lasted about two
hours, and immediately beginning to gnaw wood. Poor,
starving dears ! If one had spent a quarter of the time
and effort over one’s own meals that one did on theirs,
one might be more sympathetic; but it is I, this winter,
that have lived casually — on the unadorned egg; and Gli
and Boo-boo know it; for in the privacy of the kitchen,

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and lest the art of conversation leave me, I teK them all
my griefs ! . . .

This morning, I admit, was an exception. It had been
a snappy cold night, and I carried them out a big wind-
row, stringing it along in the sun, where the many-colored
line looks so picturesque beside green hay, laid on the
whiteness of the snow. When, much later, I came out
again, leading Cressy by the horn, I was pleased to see
hay still strewing the yard, and a row of somnolent
ponies, with tight-shut eyes, dozing by the shed. For the
time being, they had had enough ! and Cressy waddled her
way undisturbed to the trough. I still have to guard her
passage there; but this morning nobody either looked or
cared. The sun was warm ; “breakfast is over, all ’s well
with the world !” they seemed to murmur in their sleep;
and, leaving Cressy gooping down her drink, I tiptoed
back into the barn.

But the result of all this was that when the other ponies
and horses came out they fell upon these remains, and
grievous squabbles ensued. The ponies dozing by the
shed woke up and rushed to defend their ex-breakfasts.
Also, Elizabeth could n’t find anybody to play with. Al-
most everybody was cross, and eating as fast as possible ;
even Donlinna’s nose was groping busily in the snow.
Elizabeth gazed around a moment, ran and took her imi-
tative little drink at the trough, backed three steps, lay
down — wop ! — rolled back and forth, little legs flourish-
ing, round, woolly stomach rotating in the sunshine ; then
jumped gaily up. With a provocative slash of her tail she
ran to her beau, Bally Beg, who is usually effusively ready
for whatever she suggests; but Bally Beg, absorbed in
digging out spears of hay, paid no attention. Crowding

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up to him, she laid her nose saucily across his withers,
just grinding her jaw-bone on him a bit; Bally responded
by nipping her heartily on the kneel Not a particle dis-
concerted, — for Elizabeth, like any little girl who has
played with boys, does not take such cavalier treatment to
heart, — she flounced away, to confront the floury spectacle
of her chum Donlinna, now tired of pretending to eat,
rolling over and over in untrodden snow. Elizabeth con-
sidered a moment, her chin tucked in, her eyes humorous ;
then suddenly dashed up and, to my horror, delivered a
deft kick on those stout, inviting chestnut hips, which
just then rolled her way.

“Oh !” I cried, and prepared to rush to her aid ; but big
Donlinna, usually so swift to retort, merely jumped up,
stared around, and fell upon hay-grubbing again. Thus
fodder doth make cowards of us all! Elizabeth and I
were, I think, equally disappointed ; with a grunt of dis-
dain the baby turned her back on such material-minded-
ness, and went off at a scornful little trot toward the salt-
rocks. There she found the adolescent Sunny, mooning
as usual, too unenterprising even to join in the hay-party
below, and approached him with a nose timidly out-
stretched ; for Sunny, having just got over being a baby
himself, has no great love for the young. She approached
nearer. “I do believe he ’ll play with me!” when —
whoosh ! the gentleman whirled upon her with wrath, and
poor Elizabeth fled.

But not far. Just beyond stood a stout gray post, once
belonging to a gateway, but now the beloved rubbing-post
of the whole family. Here was a baby’s chance; and,
with the sweetest possible expression, she backed against
it What a place for a tail-rub ! And when I at last tore

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myself away she was still scrubbing up and down, pushing
back with all four little legs, waving her nose in the air,
and having, for all the piggishness of her chums, a per-
fectly beautiful time !

Later, life revived in that barn-yard. As afternoon
came on, tremendous were the tail-wavings, the assaults,
the dashings up and down. Even Sunny awoke and flew
about; and Queen attempted to rival Elizabeth at that
small person’s very own specialties — the lamb-leap, the
pirouette, and the heaven-going kick. They all seemed
glad to see me again ; when I appeared, everybody imme-
diately kicked everybody else and rushed up to be petted.
It was really touching; never had I seen so many affec-
tionate sets of teeth in action all at once. It took a little
manoeuvering to escape from some of the target-practice
— Ocean Wave’s especially. Ocean is a funny pony. She
has the sweetest disposition in the world, but to watch her
when I come near one would think her a little devil. As
I walk across the yard, she looks threateningly about her ;
when I reach her head, she reaches out and bites savagely
at the nearest pony ; when I lay a hand on her she gives
me a sweet, transient beam, then backs wildly in every
direction, biting and kicking, until I can contain my
laughter enough to draw her with me to some quiet cor-
ner, where she becomes an angel at once. But a stranger
would think her possessed of demons !

Strangers, in fact, have a curious time in that barn-
yard. They go in, all happy eagerness.

“Oh, the dear little things! How pretty they are!”
And the dear little things, also all eagerness at the sight
of anybody new, come trotting up. Noses are stroked,
sweet faces admired, and then, as the mob increases, and

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those in the rear begin to push a little too much on those
in front, the visitors ever so slightly retreat.

“Dear me ! How very friendly they are!”

A tiny quarrel starts up; ears are laid back, and faces
alter; it is time, we know, for visitors' expressions, also,
to change. “Won't they hurt each other ?" they anxiously
inquire — with a slight backward glance over their
shoulders.

“They're just jealous," we hasten to explain. “Per-
haps," we suggest, shooing gently here and there, trying
not to smile broadly at each other as noses crowd close
and traces of temper start up here and there, just as, in
a human mob, inimic mutterings arise, “perhaps you all
might go over and step up on those rocks. Then you can
see so much better!" The strangers gladly assent; and
from that moment the rock is their fortress. From it,
they admire at their ease — unless one of them be feminine
and wear (as one of our visitors did) a white satin skirt,
whose flavor my young ponies seem to enjoy. Perhaps
it is just the dazzling effect of white satin in a barn-yard ;
but green, admiring smears are inevitably its fate. It
might be made of daisy-petals or cake-frosting for all
they know; who could blame them for nibbling? The
elderly woman who wore it had diamonds on, and prob-
ably sixteen more satin skirts at home ; at any rate, she
seemed quite pleased to have them taste it. We thought
her a very nice woman.

* * *

February 14.

Picking up one of our magazines last evening and
running through its table of contents, I laid it suddenly
down, staring happily into my fire. How good it is to see

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old ways returning — even in periodicals! and literature
again beginning to hold up its head. During the war,
we had anything given us, and liked it — as long as it was
real; anybody, if he had something true to tell, could tell
it, — anyhow! — and we were grateful. A great change
came over our magazines, especially the more literary
among them; dropping their characteristic tone, they be-
came news-vendors (of a superior sort), cultivating the
quality of timeliness to the exclusion of other, well-loved
qualities which had been theirs. For timeliness is an
enemy to art. It cannot help but be so. As John Drink-
water says, no man can work with half an eye on what the
public wants, without deflecting what is in him — his own
peculiar power.

Of course, no one at that sad time could put his mind
on any art; but now a certain calm has come. Authors
are beginning to feel about their work the attention of an
audience with a comparatively free mind ; and pretty soon
we are going to have something. ... I have n’t read the
article whose title stirred me to these happy thoughts ; but
it was something on literature. A whole article! And,
whether I shall like it or agree with it or not, the mere
idea of its existence — the first of its sort fpr many a year
— fills me with joy. It did seem as if the arts had gone
under for good . . . and here they are again, bobbing up !

* * *

February 15.

I have the most absurd nose. An imaginative nose ; if
there can be such a thing. Sometimes it is very nice,
sometimes not. Yesterday morning, for instance, when I
went out of the back door, the air smelled deliciously of
lavender. Yet all around me was snow — and wood-piles !

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THE LONE WINTER

To-day, when I awoke, it was to a scent of tar soap so
strong that I sat blinkingly up in bed, wondering what
was the matter with everything. For a confused moment,
I was sure it was fire! and listened dreadfully for a
crackle; and then — tar soap again. Tar soap was what
our youthful heads were always washed with, and I sup-
pose I had rather a strong dose of it now and then. We
had a fat old darky shampooer who came to the house;
she was fearfully energetic, I can feel the prickle of suds
in my nose now; and what handfuls of perfectly good
young hair she did extract. ... In another moment tar
soap had completely vanished — and I was admiring the
lovely and odorless sunrise. I have never seen a sunrise
that had a smell — one of the few visibilities in this world
that have n’t. Dew has, and rain, and midnight, and snow
at sunset, and the east wind; in fact, nearly all winds.
(Only I ’m glad I don’t get butcherings from them, as
Goliath does!) . . .

One perfectly visible and earthly thing that I can’t
smell is a footprint. I do envy Goliath his nose for them.
Collies are not supposed to have scent; but Goliath can
follow a trail at a gallop. How simple it would be to find
somebody you want! When my Babs, though on the
farm, has disappeared off the face of the visible earth,
what wouldn’t one give, in emergency, to be able to
follow her valiant track ? As it is, I say, helplessly, “Old
man, where ’s Little Missis ?” He whirls around a few
times, starts off, and has her in a twinkling.

Among our animals, Kimmie is the only one who seems
to lack proper sense of smell. I just discovered it to-
day. He was the stupidest thing with his nose! On
coming in from noon chores, I threw him an apple. It

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is Kim’s lunch. Being fat as a butter-ball (and stallions
should not be very fat), he is not supposed to have any
lunch ; but he does snigger at one so, over his fence. . . .
Having already entered the kitchen and laboriously taken
off my goloshes, I stood on the back step and threw the
apple; it landed in the snow at the edge of the path,
and the thud of the apple he heard. Besides, he was ex-
pecting it ; he whirled and searched. Find it, he could not.
Just as I would think he was getting “warm,” he would
veer off and go sniffing along some totally irrelevant route.
He sniffed and sniffed. At last, with a ’flop of his silver
foretop, he flung up his head, looking very handsome and
earnest, and regarded me squarely: “You didn’t throw
any 1”

“I did!” I responded, rudely (my own lunch was wait-
ing) ; “it ’s under your feet, silly !”

For an instant he lowered his head, helplessly sniffing;
then gazed at me again.

“It simply is n’t here, Missis !” he insisted.

I went in, and banged the door. I yanked on my
goloshes. I went out, climbed through the fence, and
marched to that apple. Excitedly he followed me, whin-
nering over my shoulder.

“What ’s that ?” I demanded sternly, leaning down and
pointing.

“Where?” he said agitatedly.

“There!” I shouted. His nose, and my hand, were
directly over the hole in the snow; red and yellow were
plain to be seen — and smelled; but still he nuzzled im-
ploringly at my glove. I stood up again scornfully, eying
the top of that beautiful but simple-minded head, and,
with one sweep of a golosh, laid the entire apple bare.

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THE LONE WINTER

Sluzzle, sluzzle, sluzzle!

The barn-yard ponies would have had that apple in a
jiffy. But a stallion leads so dependent a life, is so much
more pauperized, as it were, than his free-racing ladies,
that he becomes less “gleg in the uptak” ; in matters of
ordinary living, his wits are no match for theirs.

After the apple was finished, Kim followed me again,
but this time cocking his head so saucily that I turned and
confronted him, backing the last few steps to the fence.
“Keep your paws to yourself, dearie/’ I murmured — and
crawled through, leaving him hanging ardently over the
top rail, yawning a great, dreary, pink yawn. Apples,
and companionship — both had vanished. His Donlinna,
too, weary of long-distance flirting, has deserted him, and
comes no more to the bars ; but one day to my astonish-
ment I saw my elderly Pip, her white star shining in the
sun, take her stand by the gate and stealthily send in
Kim’s direction one of her long, sly, old-maidish looks.
. . . Et tu, Pippy? One did n’t think it of you!

Tennyson, in his well-mannered list of things that
brighten in the spring, does not mention pony-stallions;
but as these February days lengthen — days when, in Eng-
land, they ’d be plowing ! — my Kim looks fixedly over the
bars at me, and — though there may be no “brighter iris”
about him ; indeed, at this season his coat grows shabbier
every day — there is a difference, a dawning; a something
that portends the need of a higher, stronger fence, if he
is to stay within it. His chest-rubs on the upper rail are
growing daily more menacing; harder and harder he leans
on it, straining for a sight of possible ears above that
Mecca of his, the barn-yard gate. . . .

And yet when a pony really appears, he is mild and
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mannerly. Yesterday Ocean Wave, having made, as is
her wont, a new hole in the yard fence, came wandering
down the lane, sneezing happily, and nipping at raspberry-
shoots. Perceiving her, Kimmie set up a roar. Ocean,
one of those sexless individuals found even among pony-
kind, who seem to have no maternal leanings whatever,
ignoring gentlemen, and taking out all her energy on the
road, — a Shetland feminist, in short! — glanced noncha-
lantly around ; but, seeing a lonely fellow-being yammer-
ing over a fence, decided to take pity on him. Trotting
over, — Ocean never does anything at a walk, — she thrust
her head frankly inside the rails.

“Oh, dear !” I murmured, shrinking, “now there ’ll be
a terrible ”

But there was n’t. Nothing at all. Not a single scream.
They nosed each other peacefully; they had a simply
gorgeous neck-bite — the mark of good-fellowship, pure
and simple; then, withdrawing her head, Ocean, like a
perfect lady, strolled indifferently away, while Kim, heav-
ing a slight sigh, gazed after her, but without obvious
regrets. He is always surprising us by being nice like
that ; we were so used to the roars of our previous stallion,
that little, copper-colored dynamo of a Reddy. Reddy’s
regrets would have been so obvious they could have been
heard a mile. Also there would have been one less fence
on the farm.

* * *

February 1 6 .

Once more a perfect morning. When I opened the
porch door, Goliath stepped out and made a profound
bow to the scenery. I felt like making one, too. Then he
smiled up at me, said, “Isn’t it glorious!” kissed my

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hand, and went wagging down the steps. ... I have n’t
seen him since ! Is spring going to his head, too ? And a
Missis that doesn’t ride any more, except slow, saddle-
gripping trips to the mail-box and back, is a sad trial to
collie patience. He simply has to have runs, yet he knows
it is wrong to go away ; so when he comes back, though I
merely tell him how I miss my dear dog, he apologizes
for hours. For a few days he stays around, bored, wist-
ful, yawning; and then I miss him again. Poor Gli, I
wish I could make him understand ! Frontispiece is hor-
ribly cranky still. For a day or two it was quite glad it
had been taken to town. It shoveled the new snow, and
even accomplished a real armful of wood ; and I told the
boy he need come no longer. But there have been set-
backs. I ventured one short trot on Polly, to catch a
mail ; and next day was miserable.

Last evening, dreading even that much joggling on
horseback, I walked down for the mail. It was snapping
cold and clear, with an Arthur Rackham sunset behind
the woods — a perfect colored etching, copper-red and
green, the woods warmly brown, and, near by, distorted,
hobgobliny trees. No doubt Rackham’s slim-limbed fairies
were there, too— in the joints of the trees, or streaming
through the brownness of the wood.

The collie was with me, a beautiful wolf on the twilight
snow; I had him run ahead on purpose. . . . Siberia!
And when ’he raced raveningly through the dim woods —
oo! one felt the whole grisly pack behind him. Those
hemlocks were just right, shadowed and gloomy; he
goes at full speed among them. As the road clears
and opens, his intensity slackens, and at the banality of a
cross-roads he is once more mere, snuffing dog. Other

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interests being for the moment suspended, he searches for
a stick. Just here there is a brook-canon that is advan-
tageous — a short span for the thrower, but a puzzling,
yapping gulf for him that goeth to the depths ! So it suits
us both. After five or six throws and as many plunging,
yelping, brook-leaping trips, he is undone; with heaving
sides, and eyes fairly glazing from fatigue, he gives his
treasure a fling at my feet and gulps at the unsatisfying
snow. So I put a deterring foot on the stick. “Come
along, Gli !” He looks imploringly, shiningly, up into my
face; sees sternness there; falters forward a few steps;
then, as it comes over him how overwhelmingly he adores
that stick, dashes back again. But an order gets there
before he does ; and he shamefacedly returns.

But we are nearing the magic of the woods. I say,

“Where — are — those chipmunks-old-man ?” with a

mad little rush of voice at the end ; and he is off. Once
more he dimly ranges, nose to snow, a wolf of Siberian
forests. I miss him ; but I miss his yelps, too. This was
no night for raucous sound . . . and at the top of the first
pitch I stopped. I was in a court of moonlight. Silence
— and snow-laden hemlocks. The moon, through hemlock
tops, was flitting under filmy clouds which grew rosy as
they glided across her — veils of transparent color ; and her
light, falling into this fairy glade, was warm and pinkish.
The evergreen boughs laid down strong shadow-patterns
around the edge of the court ; and no wind disturbed the
sleeping trees, or sent down puffs of dust from their
snowy burdens; though in woods across the valley one
could hear it, low and steady, like the roar of the sea.
Hushed, expectant, the court of Moonlight waited ; where
were the kings and queens ?

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Scarcely breathing, I trod softly past. Into a very
purple shadow. Its edges were bright silver. Then into a
silver space ; but what were those tiny shadows all around
me? Leaf- shadows? ... I stared upward. . . . Beech-
leaves in midwinter! mere memories of leaves, sparse,
colorless, but clinging with spring-like semblance to their
twigs ; printed black against the bright sky, but throwing
pearl-gray shadows at my feet. The moon-lit snow was
sweet with patterns of them; violets, trillium, hepatica,
were in the air; smiling, I could have kissed those pro-
phetic flickerings. In April, under a young moon, the
same gray lace would shift against the sky — move moistly,
not rattle dryly as just then the pallid ghosts above me
did. A bit of wind was rising; the gray shadows moved.
I went on up the hill.

More purple and silver, but in expected blotches now.
The wolf joined me, panting. Pacing at my heels, he
refused to be a spectacle any longer. Miles and miles in
the forest he had raced, he told me, while I was staring
there; would I please not ask him to “run on”? So up
the bright curve of road toward the white roof-lines, the
single yellow light, we trudged together; and up the snow-
path to the green door. . . . Lettuce-green in moonlight
is merely its more silvery self; lovely on the old gray
front.

* * *

February 19.

When one can scarcely ride at all, when steering a
sleigh among drifts is equally unrecommended, and when
one's walking powers are few, the acquiring of food, on a
remote hilltop, becomes a problem. One's best device is

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to have things deposited by kind and passing neighbors
at one’s mail-box, half a mile away, and, in local phrase,
“go git ’em!” The following drama may serve as an
illustration. It is entitled, briefly —

PORK-CHOPS

Time — Day before yesterday, yesterday, and to-day.

Dramatis Personae

The Postmaster

Myself

Polly

Four Pork-Chops

Scene i.

The Store. Afternoon.

[Enter Myself, snowy , in riding garb.]

Postmaster [an energetic little foreigner , with much
manner]. How do you do, Missus Gr-eene!

Myself [absently]. Nicely, thank you. [Stamping
off snow,]

Postmaster [ingratiatingly] . And what will it be too-
day, Missus Gr-eene?

Myself [wandering about the store]. Canned peas —
how much are they?

Postmaster. I have that same brand you had bee-
fore; tventy-five cents.

M. f learnedly] . This is too much to pay for peas now.
Besides, I don’t like that brand. Those are old peas.

P. [ earnestly , inspecting a can]. It iss a this year’s
brand

M. [interrupting crisply]. No doubt. But they can
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always go into the fields and pick peas when they are
old

P. [ hastily ] . That iss so, that iss so. . . . Here is an-
other brand, if you like.

M. Very well. I ’ll try it. Here is a list of things.
And have you any fresh meat ?

P. [graciously] . Yes, mem, I will have bacon too-
night when the stage comes, and too-morrow I will be
able to give you some fresh porg. I have a loin coming.
Will it be chops — or a liddle roast I should cut off ?

M. [i adjusting coat-collar ]. Chops, please. Four. I
will be down for them to-morrow. And will you put the
other things in my saddle-bags, now? [Exit.]

Scene 2.

Next Afternoon. The Library, at the Farm. Four
o’clock.

Myself [at the telephone; meditating ruefully ]. I
simply can't ride down to that store to-day. I ’ll call them
up. Seven six ring twenty-one, please. . . . Busy? All
right. [Puts up telephone.]

Later. Four thirty.

Same [at the telephone] . Seven six ring twenty-one.
Central, or is it still busy? ... It is? [Replaces tele-
phone.] If I don’t get him soon, the stage will be in,
and he ’ll be changing mail, and I ’ll never get him ! [Exit,
disgustedly, to the barn.]

Still later. Four forty-five.

Myself [bursting hastily inandrushingtothetelephone ] .
Central, can I have that number now? Oh, Store? I

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wanted to ask if that pork you were going to have has
come in yet. . . . Well, I sha’ n’t be able to ride down for
it to-day ; is there any possible way it might be left at my
mail-box? .... Oh, thank you very much. About what
time would the boy be leaving, do you think? Could you
call'up and tell me? About six, I shall be here. . . . Oh,
yes, I can come down! It will be moonlight. . . . Oh,
and could you send up a loaf of bread and the mail, too,
please? Thank you. [Puts up telephone . Exit again.]

Same. Six fifteen.

Myself [entering hurriedly , picking up telephone ].
Yes? . . . He will .start about seven thirty? Thanks.
Tell him I ’ll be so much obliged. . . . And if he ’ll put
the chops inside the mail-box, then dogs won’t get them.
Good-by! [Exit]

Same. Eight thirty.

Myself [at telephone ; sleepily ]. Just started? Yes,
it is rather late. Thank you for letting me know. A
box? Oh, very well. Oh, no, he won’t take twenty min-
utes driving up, do you think? Well, thank you. [Drops
telephone , with a sigh of weariness .]

[Darkly.] Next time I ’ll ride down, and save all this
fuss. And he’s packed it all in a box! That will be
heavy, I know it will. A cardboard box, he said; but why
did I tell him to put in bread ? . . . And it will be down
there, sitting in the snow. And dogs could tear open a
cardboard box; oh, dear! [Going to window.] And
the moon has gone in. How disgusting of it ! It ’s all
gray and spooky. And the woods will be black. ... It ’s

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a long way down, and I ’m so tired. ... I won't go ! It
can just sit there till morning. Things have before. If
only this wasn’t meat, . . . Well [recklessly], what’s
four chops anyway ! I ’ll get up early and take Polly and
ride down. That will be better. [Piously.] I know I
oughtn’t to carry a box up these hills! [Subsides, but
with a heavy conscience, into easy -chair. ]

Scene 3.

The Horse Barn. Early next morning.

Myself [briskly]. Wow! it’s cold! [Irritably,]
How can it be so cold and be snowing so ? I can hardly
see that apple-tree out there. Sweet morning for a ride.

. . . Back out, Polly. Yes, I know you don’t want to.

. . . I will undo your blanket! Nip away, dearie. . . .
No, I know you have n’t had your breakfast ; neither have
I. Don’t jump so, silly ! That ’s only the saddle. Did n’t
y’ever feel a saddle before? So-o! [Picks up bridle .]
Oh, your bit ! Good gracious, it ’s all frost. [Breathes
on it anxiously.] Jiminy, it’s all frost still. . . . It is
cold, sure enough. I ’ll take it in the house and hot-water
it. [Tenderly, hugging horse,] Shouldn’t have her
mouth all skinned, poor lamb ; no, she should n’t. [Exit,
on the run,]

[Reentering.] There ! It ’s warm still. I did it up in
my scarf. Take — in! . . . Wait a second, lamb. Can’t
you let a person mount? ... I tell you I ’ve got to shut
that door; get round there. Whoa! Want to freeze
everybody, pig? . . . A-all right. Ni-ice Polly! [Pet-
ting her.]

[Exeunt down road.]

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Scene 4.

Road, close to mail-box. Ten minutes later.

Myself [squinting anxiously forward in saddle ].
Goodness, but this snow 's thick. We ought to be near
that box, but I can't see it. Get along, Polly. Drifts
won't bite you. I know you hate 'em, but wallow along.
, . . Keep in the road, Silly ! That 's deep, out there.
Sh’d think you 'd know that by this time. Jimmy, my
feet are f reezing. . . . Whoa ! What 's that ? That black
thing. Is it the post? Oh, it's mQving! It's a . . .
[Whistles madly.] Gli, where are you ! Dawg ! Siggim !
[Dismounts painfully , clinging to pommel.] White lump
— is this it? No. . . . [Feeling blindly around.] More
white lumps. If the flakes didn't blind a person so; it's
like cream in your eyes. Ha ! here 's the mail-box ; nearly
drifted under. . . . Good Gli! did you drive him, hey?
That 's the fine boy. Here are his horrid tracks, are n't
they. Ah! [Pouncing.] Here it is! Good stout string.
He's only scratched one little corner off; glad it was a
box ! It is n't so heavy, either. Jiminy ! [mounting] but
that was a — whoa, Polly ! — narrow escape ! Whoa ! Tell
you I wi-ill tuck down my coat. . . . All right now.
[Hugging box.] Well, I 've got you, anyhow. Let me
brush off some of that snow. There now! [Relaxing
exhaustedly in saddle.] Let 's get home to breakfast.

The Four Pork-Chops [devoutly, in chorus ]. Saved,
saved, saved !

* * *

February 21.

A wearying, happy day. Took a pony harness to town ;
brought back books and a load of necessaries. I was going

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to buy a primula, but felt too “savin’.” Primulas are
cheerful, but I don’t need to be cheerful any more. Bos-
ton was primula enough for a long time. My lily, because
I hate so to throw it away, has become a jungle, a wild
tangle of wrecked and dissipated-looking foliage, and
moldy, water-logged bulbs; but it shows me new things
every day. I stare into it and see alligators and fish-hawks
and swamps and cypresses and all sorts of damp, wild,
beautiful, disorderly things. That is one more reason for
keeping it. I ’ve looked at the alligators so long now, I
should miss them. I never had a swamp in my library be-
fore! Though libraries sometimes do need moistening.
Public libraries, especially. They are drought personified.
Think of it, what it would add to books : in every library
building, a nice centerpiece of swamp, all green and wet,
with water-growths sticking up. Then pretty young li-
brarians would never dry up (in magazine stories they are
always doing that, and the hero rescues them just in time) ;
and, in contrast to the wateriness, how the warm book-
bindings would do one’s heart good ! For many a swamp,
indeed, would add immensely to its charm by annexing
a bit of dry, warm comfort near at hand. Most of them
— either libraries or swamps — don’t know when to leave
off. . . .

And so I still treasure my disreputable lily. It really
looks drunken — until you get the alligator feeling, and
then it is seemly again. It gives me a strong marsh-grass
sensation, too; that lovely, crabby sense of being down,
down among the low-tide roots, smelling the salt mud.
Wet things, with shells on, lie around, apparently
stranded; occasionally one of them rises and walks off.
That is a surprise. Sometimes they walk off without

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luncheon with a brain felicitously clear. Coffee by the
blazing fire; dogs on the Persian rug; more and more
verbal orgies — until the narrow skirt, with difficulty re-
membering its luncheon manners, makes its way again
through the pretty woods.

And then you trip about the village on your afternoon
errands, truly hoping some one will notice what you have
on (it being your habit to come to town looking like an
Icelander), and, with books tucked beneath the seat, start
on your homeward drive. The wind has gone down ; you
are cheered, warm, and full of benevolence. At home,
however, you alight somewhat flounderingly from beneath
your robes. The narrow skirt is at its tricks again. Rac-
ing in, — as well as the abominable thing will let you, — you
strip it from you like a plague. Away with it! Away
with hats and presentable shoes and chilly, transparent
sleeves ! Georgette for a day ; but for a month — a year —
the farm! And as one’s flannel shirt slips on, one
rejoices even in that familiar, smothery moment when it
is over one’s head, and warm darkness everywhere.

In the barn, for the first dusty moment or two, rebellion
seizes you. Hay seems unnecessary ; georgette is in one’s
soul. . . . But a loud snicker from Elizabeth, who runs
to you with glad baby eyes, dispels all that, and presently
you are tramping around in your faithful goloshes, open-
ing wooden windows, poking pitchforks in and out, as if
you knew or wished nothing further in life.

And this morning came the jolliest of Marchy blows, to
welcome a restored farmer. The warm wind, with a
snow-flake or two in it, was tearing about the barns;
everything that could rattle rattled; other things flapped
and flew; and in the barn-yard we had the grandest frolic.

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THE LONE WINTER

The youngsters, Lassie and Sunny and Queen and Eliza-
beth, all went fearing and ripping around till with a whoop
of joy I joined them (frontispieces forgot!) and careered
like another colt. Cressy, watching us from the shed, was
so scandalized — or inspired — by this unheard-of behavior
on the part of a Missis that she, too, flung up calf-like
heels and came galumphing and head-shaking out to gam-
bol with us. This, too, was unheard of. For if Cressy,
by strategy, gets possession of a shed, she clings to it.
But this morning holiday had us all. Elizabeth played
first at me, and then with me — like a frolicsome puppy ;
running at me, coming to a dramatic halt, then — heels up !
and away. After a while I had only to poke my face out
at her and say “Boo !” and the little, tow-headed gambols
began. Lassie, too. She is a big, sweet-tempered, high-
stepping yearling, with much action ; and she did supreme-
ly foot it up and down, darting by me with an acknowledg-
ing duck of the head and a coquettishly-gleaming eye. I
had never had so personal a time with these children ; and
came in red-cheeked, blown, and beaming.

Later the wind brought a snow-squall worth the watch-
ing. The flakes flew venomously, straight across the hills,
and blinding thick. Under every one of my dear rattly
old windows lies a tiny drift; even the tight new front
ones let in a sort of spray. It is all over now, the wind
dying down; I must go out and give Cressy her noon hay.

* * *

February 24.

Donlinna and I had a thrill last night. As I was getting
down hay, she had been pawing uproariously. Donny
cannot wait one instant for anything; and she cannot

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THE LONE WINTER

Another day, another image comes to -mind : A figure
on snow-shoes, in brown corduroy, a dog at its heels, has-
tening down from the high knoll ; pitching into soft snow,
skidding over icy places, racing across meadows and down
the lane. The figure is muttering to itself. “And Goliath
and I went up the lane, in the rain, together; spiritually at
one;” . . . That jewel, too, was apparently to have been
enshrined in letters; for the figure was hastening for a
note-book ! (I always have to run home for one — or bor-
row Babs’s. Mine is in “some other pocket”!) ... Of
course, I have never since had the remotest idea why
Goliath and I were in that ideally spiritual state of mind ;
but I do remember perfectly well plunging down that hill
and leaving a most glorious sunset to record a phrase —
which somehow did n’t get recorded after all !

* * *

Evening.

A miraculous answer to prayer — or rather to irritated
wishes — arrived to-night in the haymow! a spot appar-
ently conducive to luminous thought. Just before sunset
I was placidly putting down the night’s supply, when it
occurred to me quite freshly what a nice place a haymow
is. The stratum I am now uncovering is of fine, silky hay,
singularly green, and smelling bewitchingly of the fields.
June grass, cut early ; and I know exactly where it came
from — our highest mountain-mowing, from which a mag-
nificent view extends. We always linger affectionately
over that field ; and then what a skiddering, toppling hill
to drive a hay-load down! We have never tipped over
yet ; but every time it seems as if we were going to. . . .

As I forked, therefore (with blue mountains in my
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THE LONE WINTER

eye), over that fragrant surface, often coming upon those
smooth, round, nest-like looking Bundles which fine hay
likes to make of itself, my mind, once more revolving
literary-ward, began constructing themes on haymows,
rambling along over the possibilities of finding eggs or kit-
tens in just such nests as these, etc., etc., when — with a tri-
umphant jab of my fork into a receptive lump, I looked up
to the old rafters and shouted. . . . Found — at last ! that
beastly “biped on the farm” which had driven me dis-
tracted at lunch. Thus: Kittens and eggs in the hay —
not possible here, Mr. Boo being our only pussy, and we
having no hens — I being, in other words, therefore, "the
only biped on the farm.” Hallelujah! . . . What a re-
lief ! But how tame ! I suddenly thought, frowning scorn-
fully at the tines of my shining fork; not worth even a
fraction of one anguished egg. . . . And I, who was so
sure it belonged to a nice story !

Nice or not, however, it was heavenly to get it off one’s
mind. As for the other will-o’-the-wisp, the spiritually-
rainy lane, I somehow didn’t mind about that. Let it
remain a mystery. Like most mysteries, it would doubt-
less unravel into flatness. . . .

We were once disputing, a company of painters and
writers, as to which was the harder — winding oneself up
to paint or write. An author opined that of course writ-
ing was the more difficult. Your state of mind was shyer,
rarer ; you stalked for days sometimes to bring it down.
Even then it sometimes wriggled away, and the stalking
had to be done all over again.

At this a chorus of dissent arose from the artists. “You
talk of stalking!” cried one of them. “It ’s we that stalk.
We stalk not only mood and subject and time and place,

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but — if it ’s outdoor work — light, weather, perhaps even
an agonizing choice of medium! You can’t do water-
colors in winter, nor pastels in a fog. Maybe you ’re just
jumping for work — and the sun goes under a cloud; or,
if the light ’s right and everything else, likely as not your
mood goes bang — and there you are !”

But the writer, though silent, was obdurate. He eyed
his rings of smoke, and gently smiled, and shook his head.
He was famous for his silences. The rest of us argued
and declaimed, telling him that he was a lucky dog, that all
he needed was a pencil and himself, that his working time
could run all over the clock, etc., etc., but we could not
convince him. And I have come to feel he'was right. To
paint, you need the margin of an hour or two — and then,
though you have n’t worked for a year, you can go boldly
at it. You have lost nothing. In fact, you may have
gained by waiting. . . . With writing it is quite other-
wise. You must keep in the habit. After a lapse it will
take you not an hour, but a week, a month, maybe, to find
your mood again — that mood in which things drop from
heaven. There ’s no forcing it ; you can’t set your notions
in front of you, and stare at them till they take shape;
they have to come to you whether you ask them or not.

. . . And you have to be in the habit of that mood ! Of
inspiration !

A dreadful combination of requirements !

February 26.

My red squirrel that lives in Alpha has come back. I
had n’t seen him for days. I am glad he has n’t been eaten
yet, though he had a frightfully narrow .escape the other

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day. .From the library window I saw Boo-boo outside,
creeping swiftly up the snowy path with his stomach in the
snow and craft in every line of him. He was en route to
the terrace. With Gli at my heels I tiptoed to the door.
If there was to be tragedy, we purposed to intercept it!
His jaw quivering. Boo worked himself out to the edge of
the terrace wall, where there is an opening in the rose-
bushes ; such lust to kill, I never saw. His whiskers pro-
truded, his back wove in and out with stealth ; as he stole
forward, each flexing paw was set down with a delicacy
possible only to one who has murder in his soul. From
beneath the wall came a scolding, rapid, continuous, varied
by a curious, sotto-voce, little wailing cry which might
have come from the very hearts of those who for ages
have known themselves pursued. Toward the edge of the
wall Boo crept and flattened himself, not peering over the
wall, — not quite , — but so intensely desiring to peer over,
that I thought his impassioned ears would drop from his
head. From below, the unseen wails increased ; the victim
was evidently drawing nearer. I could bear it no longer.

“Kiss the kitty!” I whispered fiercely to Gli; “kiss
him!”

It is an old emergency device of ours. With a humor-
ous glance at me, the collie darted silently through the
snow, and dropped his nose on the cat’s head. Boo, who
had heard nothing of this approach, gave one startled spit,
leaped in the air, lost his balance, falling backward over
the wall, at whose stones he clutched in desperation, at
last hauling himself up with ears at all angles and staring
bewilderedly at us. Gone was the hunter — the thing of
creeping wiles; only a dear, distracted pussy sat there,
whirling his ears so absurdly that I leaned against a porch

[2X5]

THE LONE WINTER

post, consumed with laughter, while Goliath, grinning in
sympathy, came leaping about me. . . .

But Boo saw no joke whatever. The seductive scolding
had ceased — the scolder disappeared ; and so he sat there,
fat, furry, and sad, a rueful orange bunch against the
snowy landscape.

To-day, therefore, I was more than ever pleased to
hear chirping sounds from Alpha, and behold my little
friend busy about its branches. He was busier, in fact,
than I had ever seen him — flipping about, doing something
very devotedly with his mouth, nibbling or lapping. At
any rate, with his lightning quickness he was running out
every branch, flopping beneath it, then running along
upside down , like a sailor on a yard-arm, licking as he
went. That twig exhausted, he would dart back, turn
upside down, and run out another. Such a nervous job !
I was in plain sight in the window, but he did not give
me a glance, or a single scold. Flop! lick-lick-lick-lick.

. . . Pull up and — Hop! lap-lap-lap-lap !

I decided he must be getting moisture. Could it be
sap? One of my neighbors had made sugar already,
but surely sap would not be oozing through bark. . . .

By this time he had licked over most of the lower parts
of Alpha; conceiving he had had enough, he suddenly
flicked into its interior. I waded out through untrodden
snow to inspect those branches. Not a mark! No tooth-
print, or scar of any sort; only tongue-work! . . . The
poor little chap was certainly after water. Yes, our brook
was now mostly covered in, or the banks piled high with
snow and ice ; drinks might well have become a problem.

. . . But I thought all these creatures ate snow !

Next morning, however, as I went to the watering-
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THE LONE WINTER

trough, I saw on its snow-piled edge the pitiful dotting
of little mouse-tracks. My field-mouse, then, was thirsty,
too; much touched, I bent over the tiny, anxious prints,
hoping he got some, and nothing frightened him. By
day, as the stock drink it down, it would be an impossible
reach for him ; but when it overflows— on a warm night,
with little ice — he could get some. There was no way to
put water out for him ; it would freeze. He would have
to come to the trough. And I vowed a vow to clear it
out for him every night. Only one field-mouse had come ;
I could see where the tracks hesitated forward to the
e$ge of the water, then darted fast away; but perhaps
he would tell his brothers, and they all would get up
courage to come. . . .

The same day of the upside-down squirrel, two other
interesting visitors appeared in the pear-tree — the big tree
that we get pickled pears from, near the garden steps.
These visitors were also unceasingly busy — and upside
down! The cunningest little gray pair of nuthatches —
so industrious, so bouleverse. I think they must share
the ability of spiders, and be happiest with their heads
down ! They twirked and twined up and down that tree,
never seeming to find anything, never quite colliding with
each other, but having various narrow escapes. It was
certainly rush hour for nuthatches ; and, like my squirrel,
they flitted very suddenly away.

I wonder how many more upside-down visitors I am
going to have. I find them charming.

This has been a month of variety; snow every few
days, and track-language to be deciphered. This makes
real luxury in one’s walks. My gray squirrel, I inferred
yesterday, had been having an adventure ; his leaps down

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THE LONE WINTER

the roadside were of phenomenal length, and, instead of
meandering pleasantly about, as an unscared squirrel does,
went in a dire straight line. I trust nothing got him!
The tracks ended abruptly; he doubtless jumped and
caught a tree — I hope so. His daily profile coursing along
the wall, is one of my joys.

This has been a rather anguished afternoon. “Sister
Anne, Sister Anne, do you see any one coming?”- . . .
The trouble was, my sleigh wasn’t turned around! It
sat there in front of the shed, its shafts fronting serenely
inward, and I, in the window, gazing imploring at it.
For I was asked to a seven-mile-away party. I could n’t
ride that far; anyway, the party demanded Clothes;
neither I nor Dolly could turn that sleigh around in the
deep snow; nor could I summon djinns to swoop down
and whop my conveyance round for me. . . .

It was such a nice party, too. A hundred-year-old
house was giving it for itself! a birthday celebration;
and had sent a card with a pleasant sketch of itself, in
pen and ink, at the top. I had never been to a party given
by a house; and I wanted extremely to go. Like a dis-
appointed child, I flattened my nose against the window-
panes. Apparently there was not a man in all the world !
My telephone was out of order ; the boy who does Satur-
day chores had not appeared ; and the chance passer-by
on our hills is unknown. ... It was all Dolly’s — and
frontispiece’s — fault. Since our December melodrama of
attempting to turn ourselves round in front of that shed,
I have n’t even suggested that performance to her again.
I don’t enjoy horse-melodrama now; for if she got tan-
gled up in shafts and things I couldn’t, I fear, undo
her, and that would be sad. . . .

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The time wore uneasily along. The party was from
five till seven; and not till late did I give up hope. I
seem to have the absurd yet convenient sort of tempera-
ment that says “Oh, dear” and “Never mind” in the same
breath; and it came upon me that I was very contented
right here. . . . Beside me was a heap of literature;
“Caliban upon Setebos” open upon my lap; above all, I
had the Sunday feeling very hard. For it was Sunday —
an odd day for a house to give a party ; or was this fes-
tivity intended as a Te Deum for not having tumbled
down yet? A very proper spirit on the part of an old
house! . . . The Sunday feeling is one I approve of —
for then Sunday seems different, and rests you, even if
you do the same things as on week-days. Here, in winter,
morning chores are prohibitory, and one seldom gets to
church, but as I stroll my pagan way into the woods the
Sunday feeling comes agreeably along and strolls with
me. The wind grandly sways the trees and as the great
forest-music sweeps by overhead, one feels that “. . . God
is at his organ.”

I remember drifting in a small sail-boat into Newport
harbor one windless sundown and anchoring in a cove.
Behind us the old town stood up black against the glow-
ing sky, which the water between us and the rocky shore
reflected; and suddenly, across the bay, to our surprise,
came soft strains of band-music: “Abide with Me.”
There was a fort on that rocky point; and it was Sun-
day evening. Rarely have I heard anything more beau-
tiful than that tranquil hymn drifting softly across the
water. A girl stood beside me, listening ; she was young
and gay, but as it died away she murmured : “There ’s
nothing like it, is there? The feeling, you know. I

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would n’t have been brought up without it for anything ;
would you?” (Parents in this day and time, take note!)
To be sure, the next tune that band played was a rollick-
ing march from Sousa! but every other “piece” was a
hymn. Was this chance, we wondered, or habitual mili-
tary concession? The skipper, who hated hymns, sat
frowning at his coils of rope; but the girl and I still lis-
tened musingly. The Sunday feeling! something too
sweet to dream of missing. . . .

So there by my pet window, where I rarely have a
daylight moment to sit, I and the Sunday feeling pro-
ceeded with a consolatory tea-party of our own; munched
delicious jelly cookies brought me by a kind and skilful
neighbor, gazed luxuriously at the darkening hills (our
hills darken marvelously), and read, at intervals, my
Caliban — who, with his grunting crudity, his atmosphere
of mud and beasts, truly refreshes one. I took time to
select, too, — just before leaping out to belated chores, —
bits from “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” Could more miscellaneous
comfort, I wonder, be crammed into a poem than lives in
that one? Those harped-upon, wonderful lines about
being comforted by what one “. . . aspired to be, and
was not” — who, that loves poetry, has not crept for shelter
under that wide- winged shadowing? . . .

Late that evening the moon, a tawny thing, came up.
The woods were black, the snow-fields barely visible, the
sky blue-black ; it looked as if that tawny fragment, with
its rolled and smutted edge, would do little toward light-
ing such vast gloom and sullenness. In an hour, it sailed
triumphant above the orchard-tops, its world all silver
and blue! A softened silver, hdwever; a toned, delicious
blue. I love old moons. There is something humanized

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about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color.
One can stare all night at an old moon. I should like a
list of old moons in poetry, the adorable bits that have
been written about them. In my tea-party with Brown-
ing I came across the very finest (I had forgotten it was
in “One Word More”) ; how, as “our new crescent of a
hair’s breadth,” she came

“Curving on a sky imbrued with color,

Drifted over Fiesole by twilight” . . . then
. . full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,” . . • till

(and this is my bit)

Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished,

Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs,

Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver.

Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish.

Oh, the untouched gorgeousness of Browning! . . .
and his humanity enveloping everything — even a cold
thing in the sky! There is modeling, to that sort of
moon. She is used, worn. Not merely un-get-at-able
brightness, aloofly glittering. That glitter can be glorious ;
but appeal gathers about the worn, tawny thing I saw
rise to-night. . . . Galsworthy, whose sense of beauty
sets him quite apart among writers, uses adorable moons ;
I think he loves best a full, new-risen one. Never, with-
out a stir at heart, can I get by that scene in “The Country
House” where the Squire's family, properly bedecked and
glossy, but each one hoarding a worry, are having their
glum and proper dinner, while “. . . Outside, through the
long open windows . . . the full moon, tinted apricot
and figured like a coin, hung above the cedar-trees, and

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by her light the whispering stretches of the silent fields 4
lay half enchanted, half asleep. . . .” Many a time has
one gloried in that very moon, but who except Galsworthy
has had presence of mind to put it down? Truth, scenic
or otherwise, often seems to fluster people; Galsworthy
faces it simply, and so his touch is sure.

What pleasure there is in commonplaces! Not that
the weather is a commonplace; but it is such a lovely
spring morning to-day, with the first clear sunshine for
a week, and a rash thermometer at forty. On my slushy
way out to the barn I pass my three cordial mountains
of wood, piled for sawing, and smelling of the forest.
Kimmie trots whinnering along his fence, wriggling his
nose for his bucket of water. A mouthful of hay troubles
him ; he takes one eager swallow, then lifts his head from
the pail and slobbers painfully. After spears are dis-
posed of he drinks again, then whirls gaily away. Bucket
andT proceed to the barn.

Before me is my jasmine-blossom of a pussy, perched
on an old gray wagon. Another jasmine sits upright on
the snowy path — the golden collie, benignly approving,
on this fair morning, of his world and all that in it is,
including (to judge by his expression) an approaching
Missis. Jasmine-blossom on the cart arises, as I draw
near; begins to card wool (on the wagon-body), scrub
his yellow cheek on a tire, and proclaim a miscellaneous
state of bliss. Our eyes being on a level, we beam at each
other. As I go in one door, he rushes round by a hole
under another. “Beat you to it!” says he, bobbing a

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facetious head at me from a beam above Cressy’s neck.

. . . Cressy is in a charming mood. Her drink this morn-
ing is a stately one; she breathes, and absorbs, and
breathes again, gazing into beatific distances. Wonder-
ful, to be warm once more! And she proceeds, also
stately, to her favorite basking-place.

Elizabeth is at the door as I return, and hops down,
with a caper of accomplishment. First barn pony out!
quoth she, and water in the trough nice and high for a
little person. The others follow, with expectations; but
Superb waves them all away, — a hind leg wave! — and
so the four youngsters, with sidewise nips of mutual tol-
erance, await her convenience. They are a pretty crowd,
black and white, brown, dove-tinted, their fluffy heads
bent together over the old trough. As they lingeringly
conclude, the horses appear, orderly and mild. Perhaps
for them, as for me, primroses are meltingly in the air!
(One thinks of English copses. . . .) I wonder what
a horse’s primrose is. What most means spring to him?
The smell of sod ? A Marchiness in the wind ? Or per-
haps just that indescribable . . good gigantic smile o’
the old brown earth,” as he "sets his bones to bask i’ the
sun . . .”!

By this time the jocose jasmine-blossom, convinced (not
without reason) that his Missis is about to start on the
momentous trip inward, is swarming deliriously — and
decoratively — up every fence-post in sight. “Goin’ with
you when you go — with you when you go !” he chants ;
and, with rabbit-legs wildly flourishing, scoots madly be-
fore me to the stable door. Here he halts, his eyes black
• with thrill, and demands a shoulder through the barn, but,
alighting with a musical wop! decides, after all, that that

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bright smell of mouse by the grain-chest needs seeing to.
He scrooches and stares. I leave him.

The other jasmine, having waited patiently in a wet
path all this time (collies never do mind what they sit
on), greets me as if after a month’s absence and follows
twistingly, treading on my heels. Reaching the porch, I
tell him it is just the morning for nice dogs to stay out —
whereat his face falls; but on my recommending the
pretty sunshine, all warm for Gli, and nice straw — see ? —
by the hay barn, he waves a consenting tail and departs.
. . . Traversing the porch, I next pass that demure green-
painted box within which reside the season’s relics — tin
cans, or other containers, furnishing an almost complete
record of a winter’s dietary; lifting the lid, the onlooker
might adjudge as a favored menu — so copious are their
remains — canned peas, salmon, and lamp-chimneys!

Once more, my squirrel has been interfering with break-
fast. A fretfulness against the sky — and there he was,
licking Alpha again v ... It must be sap. For to-day
snow is melting, every hoof-print is a brimming cup. This
time, too, he was licking the tops of the branches just as
avidly as the underneath. He was finicky about it — not
studious and earnest as the day before ; dashed here and
there, appeared now on this side, now on that, of the
trunk; one moment hanging suspended low over the
syringa bush, the next silhouetted against a cloud. . . .
It certainly must be sap; for, at the end of a wild,
tonguing whirligig among twigs, he whopped down on a
solid limb, evidently feeling sticky. Ablutions furiously
began — paws, whiskers, his left side ; then the tip of his
tail, fiercely seized in little hands. . . . And then he saw
me at the window. He froze. His tail at once ascended

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the curve of his back, and he sat up, silent, but with fear-
ful eyes peering at me, and two anxious little hands
clasped, as is the touching way of squirrels, over his heart.
Soon he relaxed, reversed on the limb, bounced up and
down, whopped beneath it, bobbed up again, licked a
farewell lick, and was — down-the-trunk-and-across-the-
snow ! before one could wink.

But he is after sap, and I am not sorry for him any
more. To-day I shall taste a maple twig myself. I fear
Alpha must be leaking !

This morning my dear little friend, upon whom I rely
for breakfast entertainment, behaved in a most uncalled-
for and grievous way. While sitting, an ingratiating
bunch of red fur, placidly licking a branch, he looked up
for just an instant — and flew into a paroxysm of rage!
Grouping all his feet, he danced up and down, with furi-
ous tail-jerkings, mad chattering of teeth. Ceasing to
bounce, he began merely, endlessly, but with a wonderful
effect of menace, shuffling those clutching, clinching feet ;
then, sitting back, let loose all his powers. He raved,
cursed, swore, chippered, gibbered, swore again, then —
flick ! — disappeared. I went to the window. Nothing was
in sight ; nothing more inimical than landscape. Boo was
asleep in his chair. . . . Was this exhibition simply a
variation in the usual allegretto mood of my small per-
former, and for effect only? If so, he could give points
on passion to Wagnerian conductors. What a baton that
tail would make !

This is the windy but blissful month I expected to

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spend in the tops of apple-trees, pruning. One year I
spent six weeks there, constructing a pile of brush,
branches, and suckers as big as a bungalow. One night
we set fire to it; it lit up the mountain world like a
beacon. . . . Pruning in an ancient orchard is such a
jolly thing to do. You have sneakers on and dance all
over the tall old trees (from which you never knew the
mountains were so beautiful) ; the cat climbs with you,
the wind blows your ladder down, and it is altogether
lovely. Boo-boo, with many pr-ows, always wants to play
with the twig I am sawing ; the birds don’t mind him a
bit. They fly about me all day long. I never was so
intimate with bluebirds before. In its cleft below the
orchard our little brook with the surprisingly big water-
fall is shouting very loud; and my beloved November
coloring, pink fields, purple woodlands, deep-blue hills,
has come again — though still with the tang of snow-drifts
in the air.

So now, when I can’t saw, I view my suckery trees
with sorrow. Poor dears, they need trimming so ! Last
year, all summer long, we had “purples to go with our
greens” — enough to satisfy any artist; it irked our agri-
cultural eyes extremely. So many artistic things do. An
old barn roof with moss on it— lovely ! but it means wet
hay. Devil’s paint-brush (the killingest of weeds) in
brilliant dashes on the fields; everlasting silvering the
pasture slopes; an oat-patch golden with kale — all sins!
and all lovely. Artists should sit on a dune or a desert, and
stay there ; then they would not be tormented by having
to do ugly, salutary things to landscape. By having, as
I have here, two competing “soul-sides ...” “one to run
a farm with, one to know a picture when one sees it !” —

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if one may wickedly paraphrase. ... I love the big
greening tree with one side dead — scraggly and purple
against a pasture hillside; yet I should have that purple
half removed. I did so enjoy the corn barn with its
gray, lichened, curling, century-old shingles, twice as
thick as modern ones, and fastened with square, hand-
wrought nails bronze-colored from age; but they had to
be stripped off and a smug coat of new, uninteresting
ones put on, and, though our bins are now prudently dry,
I miss those hoary shingles every time I pass. . . . And
so, now that I cannot shear the purples from my aged
trees, I look at them with regret, yet with a certain tre-
mendous complacence. Now, for another year at least,
I can have those nice scraggly shapes against that hill.
And I made an ungrammatical proverb : It ’s an ill wood-
pile that does n’t trip up somebody for their good !

For days we have been melting; temperature at forty,
brooks shouting, everything running away in streams.
(A new version of “The Roaring Forties.”) Wet, yel-
low gravel is showing on our hill. On the pasture a semi-
circle of grass is fairly out in the sun; greenishness is
visible! And in our woods such brown banks have
emerged, with ferns pressed close upon them — hardy
ferns, still green after a winter’s flattening. Full twenty
exciting feet of wet gravel show down the pitches — a sad
prospect for Dolly and the sleigh, .but otherwise delicious.
(Dolly and the sleigh, compared to one’s first mud, are
unimportant!)

On the stretches of clear ice, squirrels have scattered
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assistance in the shape of myriad hemlock-cones, red-
brown and clinging. Their seed-vessels are sprayed over
the gray ice-coating. And how golden-green, in this warm
sunshine, the branches of the hemlocks ! Quite different
from their midwinter coloring; and the arch of the hill-
road beneath them, as I looked up it, was newly beautiful
under that warm swaying.

Last night the wind was straight out of the south, and
very warm and salt. “The sea, boy !” I told Goliath ; and
we both stood, sniffing. When, after years by the shore
or in harbor cities, we first came here, I missed the sea —
the great flat blue, the scent and splash of it. From my
little house on a dune we had seen everything it could
do. It threw wrecks in our front yard, rang a bell-buoy
at us, reflected sunsets, and put wild color on our garden
flowers. Also it sang songs, tore up a creek and back
again, and sent salt smells into the house, requiring light-
houses, too, to be set up here and there, to wink diversely
at us. There were five. We loved those lighthouses —
indeed, the sea’s whole program, including the daily drain-
ing of our neighbor, the salt marsh, till only round pools
were left, containing tommy-cod. The dogs spent all
their energies on those tommy-cod. Even our cat took
to fishing, and sat daily on the edge of the pools, coming
home with her arms wet to the elbows. (Boo-boo has yet
to put his nerves to that test!)

In the mountains we miss all that; but with the right
wind still comes that faithful breath of saltness, and in the
woods any wind will give you the steady roar of the surf.
I hear it suddenly, sometimes, and look hastily through
my paper for the shipping news: “Highland Light”
(how it used to wink on our front door!), “wind N.E.,

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THE LONE WINTER

cloudy, observation ten miles, sea smooth/ 5 That weather
man is an artist. How often we have stood on those wet
cliffs, with “observation ten miles, sea smooth”! The
ship news is now my gallery of marines. Sea rough, sea
smooth; misty, clear; wind high or low — pictures, all.
When it is “sea smooth,” you can please yourself as to
color ; but when it ’s “rough,” with clouds, — stormy gray-
green, slashings of white, dark-purple in the hollows, —
who needs to be told how it looks then? Or how the
fishing-boats come scudding round Race Point? ... I
used to sit on the hard, wave-fattened sand of that last-of-
all Points, sketching them, the under-shore falling away
sheer and green at my feet, — for great ships can come in
near, there, — and Europe just across the way. ... A
fine feeling. I love an edge.

* * *

March 9.

Still we are melting and running away in streams.
Five days of rain, cloud, and hot fog; my road is im-
passable for sleigh or wagon. The narrow sled-track is
deep mud, and at wagon-width begins unfathomed soft
snow. Dolly would faint if asked to attempt either. On
my last horseback trip Polly fell with me so many times —
my clever, high-stepping Polly! — that I have abandoned
even her services, and rubber boots are now one's medium
of travel. It is at least a little simpler to fall down
oneself, than via a horse.

Last evening, “in the pauses of the rain,” I began to
want my inauguration paper very much. It had already
reclined in the box for a day or two. And still worse I
wanted, in these foggy solitudes, a letter from my child.

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THE LONE WINTER

So Goliath, very optimistic, and I (rather dubious), set
out. The slope to the road was the first problem ; a slant
of sheer ice. One slid— and lighted upon a saving rim of
turf. A few steps upon that, and terrors began; sloopy
yellow mud in which one gliddered almost anywhere,
treacherous ice along its edge, a snow-gutter which now
held, now plunged one to the authentic depths. I tried
the snow-field; a day too late. The chewing fog had
undermined it. So, half crashing, half sliding, one made
one’s desperate way down to the three elms — usually a
limit of troubles, for there deep drifts begin. Polly
falls down here, so one has nice big wallow-places to
depend on.

But to-day it was all ice. The three elms, however,
looked benignly down; I started gaily forward. Sl-loop!
and one foot shot a yard beyond the other. Righting
myself with a gasp, I began again. Every track, every
Undulation, was newly iced. Prickly ice, bumpy ice,
glare ice. Not a golosh remained where it was set. The
“fancy dances” of my youth came into play, as I wabbled
and lurched — the technique of the hornpipe and the High-
land fling ; and after what seemed hours of tottering, leap-
ing, and recovering, I attained the hemlocks. Blessed be
cones, and the squirrels that strewed them! For a few
strides there was real walking, but outside of the shadows
desperation once more began. At the turn of the rdad
Goliath was waiting for me, turning a mild eye upon these
antics which yet took so long to arrive, as his mistress
came hornpiping through the fog ; a pretty, pale-gray dog,
a dream-dog, darkening into reality as I neared him ; then,
with a relieved flick of the tail, dashing away into oblivion
once more.

[*3Q]

THE LONE WINTER

Dusk had now become darkness — as near darkness as
the white pallor would let it. Plenty of light in the dis-
tance ; none at one’s feet ! Was that black place a hole —
or only mud? Were there helpful bumps in that gray-
ness, or was it glaring smooth? The black places were
the worst ; on adventuring them, one crashed through into
a nether world of running brooks careering over layers
of ice, the slipperier from its wateriness. One’s world
seemed made of crevasses — and shocks ; and when at last
I clanged open the lid of the mail-box it was to feel the
inauguration paper reclining there in solitary state. Not
a letter !

Gli looked up in surprise, at my moan. Was it for
that, these darkling struggles? for the wealth of banality
doubtless contained within that yellow wrapper? The
breakfast menu of our revered President, the degree of
stripes in the official trousers? . . .

But on our way home there was the ghost-beauty of
everything. Soft black blobs for spruces; the winding,
f og-gentled road ; and always the vivid wet-soundingness
of the brook, turbulent, noisy, and intensely fluid. I felt
as if it were running down my back! It seemed as if
some use should be made of all this energy thus galloping
to waste; I stopped in the road, quite oppressed by it.
"Have a drink of water, Gli !” I suggested. And when he
merely stood beside me and stared, “Oh, do have some t”
I cried peevishly. "There ’s such a lot of it !” then burst
into laughter at my own silliness ; at which he kissed my
hand, beat me with his tail, and began to look for a stick —
as I could tell even in the dusk, by the quick turns of his
head. I ceased suggesting. At that moment the responsi-
bility of a stick would have been intolerable!

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THE LONE WINTER

The ice on the pitches was greasier than ever. No
Matterhorn, to the well-spiked Alpine climber, could have
been more arduous than those gray hills to the unadorned
golosh, till Goliath, like a rescuing St. Bernard, offered
a collar for my assistance: “Help Big Missis up the
hill!” at which a willing tail wagged in my face as I
bent, while ardent claws scratched and tore at the ice.
When he choked, we stopped.

Such a shouting and rioting of mad waters was never
heard before ! The paddock is a turbulent lake ; there is
a lively brook on the second terrace; and, as fer the
proper avenues of flood, — the waterfall in the woods by
the orchard, the stream in the east mowing, or the rill
through the upper swamp, — “there is no speech nor lan-
guage where their voice is not heard !” By the horse barn
this morning, looking out over the braided stretch of
waters, I stood fairly appalled by the clamor. That blue-
black mill-race across the paddock — where later our inno-
cent horses doze! . . . The first robin was quit-quitting
from a maple, a grosbeak sent out his delicious warble
from the top of the tall balsam, where he sat, happily
turning the rose-color of his breast and a black-velvet
head. Dearest of all, a pair of bluebirds were flashing
about the orchard, gurgling their song above the rampant
noises of the flood. They were so blossom-blue! their
notes, after winter silence, so unbelievable.

It seems all wrong that they are here. Brown patches
are gaining ; the earth is mottled like a leopard-skin ; but
drifts surround us still. My path to the barn is a glacial

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THE LONE WINTER

ridge. Cinnamon roses are sitting in a foot of ice; and
through the orchard I can see the mountain mowing
rising — sheer, white, arctic, untouched. Bird-food must
be almost ungettable. The ground is still frozen. And
what does a spring robin eat but worms? On the decep-
tive brown grass I see them running and sitting up, run-
ning and sitting up, but never a pounce and a pull. They
fly a great deal, poor dears, and proclaim loudly from the
tops of trees, but their happiest “time-to-get-up” music
I have not heard; chirps and quit-quits only.

A day or two ago I saw, at sunset, a beautiful flight of
fifty or more of them, fleeting over the rim of a brown
knoll, the rich sun full on their breasts. The flight was
just over my head, and the beat of their many wings
heart-stirring. Whir-whir — whir-whir-whir! ... I
never dreamed of robins so red. Stabs of color against
the rich sky; and little fists of feet nicely curled under
them. They flew into a sumac grove, and seemed to be
eating. Sumac berries within ; the crimson of sumac on
their feathers . . . surely well-matched and consistent
robins !

The bluebirds are entirely happy, flitting from one tree
to another in the orchard. Doubtless the bug-inhabitants
of a March apple-tree are just as reachable as those of
April, living up in the air and being limbered by warm
sun. But if I were a worm and lived in cold mud I should
crawl out as early as possible — if I remembered what
sun was. . . . Only worms don’t like sun. They like
doing hari-kari on brick sidewalks after a rain. In the
city I always worry about worms. They seem to have
so few defenses. Far preferable to be a well-installed
country worm, and perish, after due struggle, in a beak!

{ 233 ]

THE LONE WINTER

The barn-yard is seizing the opportunity for an orgy
of loathliness. Armored beneath with solid ice, it pre-
sents a surface of about three inches of splosh — mud and
fertilizer, garnished with miry straws. The ponies are
a sight. Occasionally one of them slips down in this
compound, rising disgustedly, a dripping mess. Bad Don-
linna, pursuing Elizabeth, precipitated the poor baby into
the very worst of it. Elizabeth gave herself a rueful
shake and picked her way into a shed; all one side was
a mass of horrid mud. Donny eyed her as she went;
compunctiously, I think. . . . Even the most roily of the
ponies now refrain from that exercise, and it is with diffi-
culty — even in the frozenness of early morning — that I
can pick out a clean spot to put their breakfast on. -They
do so hate having it in the same shed where they spent
the night! The avalanche under the shadow of the pig
house wall is the only possible place — a frozen ridge above
the welter of the yard ; so there I string out their festoons
of hay, and rapturously fresh and green it looks in the
frosty sunshine. Below, the avalanche drains away into
a forbidding pool, — the color of a cypress swamp, but not
so pleasant, — and upon the snowy oasis stand the break-
fasters, each one trying to chew faster than his neighbor.
It must be annoying to eat with a voracious competitor
always at one’s elbow ! Of late a certain tried expression,
I notice, comes into their eyes as I put down the hay — a
look of strain. The long winter is telling even on Shet-
land cheerfulness. What a wonder their wide pasture will
be to them next month! For, by the way the brown
knolls are coming out, it looks as if in April they can
gallop out into freedom.

But now, I am sorry for them. They hear the cawing

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of the excited crows ; they listen to songs and chipperings
in the wild cherry-tree; yesterday I saw Ocean Wave, her
pretty white stockings dark with mud, standing on the salt
rocks and following, with wistful eyes, the dipping flight
of a blue-bird above the sheds. . . . Everything feeds
their longing ; as a pressed flower made me long for a blue
river and a sniff of a Cherokee rose, just so the sight of a
bare knoll allures them now. They lean over the bars of
the pasture lane and watch the brook in the hollow froth-
ing among its stones ; they scent the tiny spears of green
on the tufts of the paddock bog; and they sigh, and nip
each other, and are very sad.

They take it out, I grieve to say, in pawing, the mud
having reached that heavenly state wherein slight, soiled
traces of last summer’s grass are attainable to the per-
severing hoof. Superb spends her entire day, with head
curbed in and fore foot threateningly lifted, exhuming
treasure from certain precincts she guards, fiercely, as
her own. Paw, paw, paw! then wuddle-wuddle with
one’s nose in the hole ; then a pleased, lip-sifting munch
at the resultant muddy rootlets. . . . “How can they?”
one thinks, turning afflictedly away. But it is one of the
spring styles among ponies, like marbles for boys; the
yard is dotted with searchers; Bally Beg, the small and
fervent, is standing over a pet hole by the fence putting
his whole soul into this pursuit — as he does into every-
thing; Sir Dignity is mud to the elbows; Fascination can
hardly be budged from the rich trove he has discovered
(at the price of a very wet back) under the dripping eaves
of the shed; and even Elizabeth gives a poke here and
there as she wanders idly about. Everybody, in fact, is
blessedly busy, and I haven’t the heart to interfere; for

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lack of occupation is die worst feature of their winter,
and this activity — half actual, half prophetic — fills them
with hope. They chew fences no longer, but have simply
settled down to mud. When it dries up they will be all
the merrier, for then even more heartfelt excavation
will be necessary. “Art for art’s sake,” they cry;
“. . . the very immolation makes the bliss!”

Elizabeth, poor darling, has not been feeling well of
late. Mud cannot be good for her. I found her with
swollen eyes one morning — so swollen that she could
hardly see, but stood very still, fronting me mournfully.
Dropping my fork in dismay, I knelt down on the straw
to condole with her. The eyes had not been kicked, for
they were not filmed over; but there is horse-distemper
in the village, one or two of the ponies are coughing, and
forebodings possess me. One year we had thirty of
them down with distemper, which has a way of expressing
itself in abscesses on the ponies’ heads and necks; one
foal had nine of these visitations at once. ... So I ex-
amined the baby dolorously. She cheered up a little as
she went out into the air, but, just as she was picking
her way up to the salt-rocks, some rollicking person
bumped into her, and she rolled completely down the
miry slope. Poor baby ! This would never do ! so I led
her and a very unwilling mother into the dry barn.

All day long she drooped, lying in a little mournful
heap (Elizabeth usually scorns to lie down!), refusing
her grain, or indeed anything but a bran mash with
salt in it, which it takes a very sick pony to resist. Next
morning her eyes were open, but a swollen ridge had pre-
sented itself down one side of the little face. I fingered
it in perplexity. “Wolf -tooth, Elizabeth?” I murmured;

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and explored inside — to Elizabeth’s vast disgust, but
without finding anything wrong. Such a funny little
mouth, with half-through teeth here and there, a little
pale-pink tongue, hardly large enough to take hold of (as
is the rude habit of investigating humans!) and a deli-
cate web of “lampas” on the roof. Of course, as I peered,
a desperate champing and head-twisting was going on,
but I held and petted her till alarm subsided and a white-
rimmed eye had ceased rolling up at me in terror. . . .
Not for very much would one forfeit a baby’s regard and
confidence, which one had been all winter in gaining.
Last autumn she was as wild as a bird. . . .

All that day she prescribed naps for herself, selecting
a pile of hay and curling down on it with fuzzy little
knees folded under her chin. At noon she nibbled at
an oat or two — taken from my hand ; and by the next day
was quite a plucky baby again, with requests to go out
into the March sunshine, which had come out for her
benefit. The eyes were cured, the swollen jaw had sub-
sided — and I have no idea what was the matter with
Elizabeth — unless, indeed, it was Mud!

The upper slopes of the yard are now partly drying
off, and my anxieties at rest. The ponies had mere tem-
peramental coughs — nothing serious ; and if one of them
wants to be dry and clean there ’s a place to be dry ini

This morning Donlinna decided that, at all costs, a
roll must be had. So, in front of the pony shed, with
many groans and turnings around, and discontented paw-
ings in unsatisfactory material, she lumped down. . . *.
Legs in the air! then — up, with a horrified hop. Her
weight had squeezed the water out of that dry-looking
ground^ and Pqnlinna arose, a sight for gods and mortals.

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— one sheet of tan-colored mud. But a person has got to
feel alike all over; and, bump ! down on the other side she
went. In an instant she jumped up, dirtier and more dis-
gusted than ever. She ran a few steps, flopped down
again, found it still wetter, and leaped up with an angry
swash of her tail. She galloped to a remote fence and
frantically tried once more ; but this spot felt even worse,
and so she again hopped up, and looked desolately about
her. . . . An idea flashed into her head ; her eyes bright-
ened, and she set off at a trot for the salt-rocks. Ha!
a dry place at last ! and she luxuriously groveled ; but, as
her coat was by this time thoroughly soaked, the dusty
earth imbedded itself the more firmly. Intolerable ! and,
after a prolonged shake, she stared furiously round,
finally, with a queer little sound — almost a bray — of ap-
peal, trotting up and pushing a muddy nose into my coat-
front: “Help me!”

“Donny dear !” I protested, backing, “I can’t brush you
till you ’re dry, you know !” and petted her delicately, in
the only clean place left, the under curve of her throat.

At this the temperamental ears went back : “Oh, very
well!” and with a fling she departed, kicking, for the
rocks. The other horses and ponies, meanwhile, were
frankly staring at these madnesses ; especially small Eliza-
beth, who, perched by the upper wall, was having very
wise ears on the subject. She has a personal interest
in the capers of her big chum; and, when Donny again
sought the solace of a rub in the dry earth, Elizabeth
(with deeply humorous eyelashes) descended, leaped in
the air, and delivered a perfectly stupendous kick — about
as hard as a humming-bird’s — upon those writhing hips.
. . . On other occasions, Donlinna had overlooked this;

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but this time, when the big colt rose, it was to make an
instant dart at that small blond impudence poised de-
risively above her on a rock, and the two went wild-
westing about the muddy slopes, up and down, back and
forth, till poor Elizabeth’s woolly sides were heaving.

Just as I was dashing to her aid, the Maharajah, be-
hind whom she had bolted for refuge, decided to inter-
vene. Raising a lofty head, he confronted the incensed
mare ; then with a bound he met her, and a beautiful duel
ensued. For a moment they fenced, agilely, with their
heads — ears back, eyes bitter; then they nipped at each
other’s fore legs^dropping gracefully on one knee to avoid
the threatened bite. At last they reared, — a lovely sight —
coats gleaming in the sun, necks curved, fierce eyes flash-
ing, — and struck out with clumsy hoofs, at last losing
their tempers, and coming to plain kicking and squealing !

Elizabeth had departed; but, looking back, I saw a
blond head peeping delicately from a shed door, with
behind it a black blot — Thalma, for once personally chap-
eroning the rashness of her intrepid child.

During the time of fog and flood and rain, one grew
engagingly low on food again. The barrenest pantry!
But I searched its shelves and always found something.
(It is strange, what simple things satisfy, when one gets
out of the habit of expecting crabs and watercress round
the corner!) Anything, rather than the trip over that
harrowing road. I had days of substituting for bread;
I even cooked cereal for breakfast — which I despise. It
gives one a mufily feeling inside ; and of all things, in the
morning, I like a clear feeling best. I had other days
of existing entirely on spaghetti. Partly because I sup-
posed it would be quick. But either Fanny was optimistic

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about the time it takes spaghetti to cook, or it was elderly
spaghetti ; at any rate, it might have been the prolonged
and dreary potato, for all the speed I got out of it. . . .
And then it was tough.

But I read back-pages of manuscript and forgot what
I was eating; amusing rain-storms came and beat at us;
and Boo-boo sat on the window-ledge and washed his face
sublimely.

I owe a lot to that small rabbit-person this winter;
my carol-singer, orchestra at meals, Sunday chimes-
over-the-roofs — all, all Boo-boo! And a daily moral
support, besides. The sight of absolute contentment is
contagious; and such a sight is Boo-boo, proceeding
valiantly about his little cat duties, doling out to himself
his stint of cellar-guarding, or bam- watching — so much
to the cow stable and the stalls, then a circuit of lofts,
beams, and sheds — then, on an inner time-table that never
fails, trotting his stubby legs into the house to keep his
Missis company; out again to oversee a possible rat in
the banking, or the piles of wood; and in, at last, for
supper and orchestral purring beside my chair. All this
is an inspiring spectacle; and the nightly vision of that
orange statuette face- washing, perched on a pile of manu-
script, with satisfaction in every curve of him, has put
a smile in one’s most lonely moments.

* * *

March 19.

Waking every morning to that rich warble of blue-
birds, loveliest of the early bird-notes, I feel as if winter
— my winter — were really gone. A r faint green spreads
along the edge of favored mowings; veils of dimmest

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green have fallen in hollows in the pasture. Yard and lane
are brightening every day. Buds on the elderberry are
pale and swollen ; can it be that they will show leaves in
early April? That is the time when Vermont is usually
just thinking about getting rid of her snow-drifts! Ah,
if so, then will come a rebuking frost, and those rash
leaves will have fried edges, nicely browned and shriveled.
I hope at least the orchard will be wise. Fried edges on
apple-blossoms are serious. We had them one year. We
also had no apples. . . .

Yesterday I rode my horse frankly over the garden,
but respectfully around the asparagus bed. One can
never tell when pink shoots will surprise one. In the
garden was as fine a chicory plant as I ever saw, bright
green, and a month ahead of time. Also, in the borders
of the plum-orchard at least one thousand youthful speci-
mens of that pretty weed with glowing yellow* blossoms
(which I fondly used to think a Vermont wild flower)
were growing splendidly, poking their blue-green heads
above the brown leaves and from the crannies of an old
wall. It is an artistic plant which might be a wild flower ;
indeed, it has almost a green-house texture of leaf and
petal, but I suppose its persistence makes it a weed.
Weeds must be objectionable, somehow; and that, as far
as I can see, is its only bad quality. Indeed, until a
shocked friend saw it and said, “Oh ! are you cultivating
that?” I had been cherishing a root of it in one comer of
a terrace bed. It covered up a lattice nicely ; and blue-
green is charming with golden yellow. Even after that I
watered it defiantly until the next year, when, in the
cinnamon rose-bushes and the terrace wall and the house-
borders and on the bank where the tiger-lilies are, arrived

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one million hilarious yellow Vermont wild flowers with
blue-green foliage, and, though every year I cover my
arms with scratches getting it out of the rose-bushes, and
pull it and stamp on it and maltreat it in every possible
way, it has leaped in revenge to the outer edges of
things, and I now have to combat it along driveways and
hen-houses and the rims of orchards.

But I still think it is pretty ! And at least it has n't
burrs, to get tangled in the ponies' manes and tails. That
would have been the last touch! ... I have a way of
admiring so many things that I should n't — burdock, for
one. Those rose-purple blossoms seated on bright-green
burrs make charming bits of color. . . . But when a poor
dear pony runs into a bush, as one of them so often does,
poking in the bushy edges of things for choice morsels,
and emerges with his foretop tied up into a ball, burdock-
bumps all over him, and his tail rolled up to his hocks —
one's fondness dwindles. I shudder at the mere sight
of a last year’s stalk protruding helplessly above a drift.

In the garden, too, I saw an infant pigweed pushing
its delicate head beside a stone. Pigweed is something
that comes to its magnificence just about fair-time, and
last year we really should have taken a sample of ours to
Agricultural Hall. It was a winner, the pigweed of a
bad dream. Taller than I, stocky, branched like an up-
land spruce, it needed a team of horses to draw it out of
the ground. In this glorious soil one gets used to colossal
vegetables, and flowers that stare one out of countenance,
but a weed of these giant dimensions seems more than
merely exaggerated; it gives one horrible visions of a
sort of horticultural Brobdingnag, dominating a terrified
plant-world. . . .

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THE LONE WINTER

I have a special grudge against pigweed, because in its
tender youth it so resembles a baby sweet pea plant. ‘More
than once, in a luxury of spring weeding, — damp brown
earth, the day cool, weeds filmy and inoffensive, — I have
pulled up a future member of my sweet pea row, mis-
taking it for one of its pigweed neighbors. Simple mean-
ness, in a weed, to imitate something you love ! . . . How
I mourned over a baby King Edward, monarch of all
crimsons, — slain by my own hand ! It was too tiny to set
out again; I just had to let it die. And I had so few
King Edwards that year.

Our soil here being wonderful for sweet peas, for our
first summer I devoted a patch of ground as large as a
good-sized garden to them alone. I was going to have
enough! having skimped myself on the Cape to a sand-
dune allowance, with loam carted from a potato-field six
miles away. (And one felt sinful, at that, borrowing a
potato-field!) Nine rows, each fifty feet long, were
planted ; and they grew and grew, all nine of them, and
outran the twigs of their birch brush till they were waving
clusters far above one’s head. And such husky, corpulent
rows ; not the usual attenuated drizzle : one could hardly
stretch both arms about the ends of them. George Her-
bert was a marvelous bloomer, a mass of rose-color
against our mountains. There was a snow-white row,
and one of palest pink; a lavender, a crimson, a maroon,
a cream-yellow, and a blue — and one mixed row for
people who like their flowers blotched and splashed,
or else striped and edged like peppermint candy. (In a
mixed row one gets a lot of those.) But any color was
lovely against a setting of mountains, and the sweet peas
did as much for the view as the view did for them. On

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gray days they lit up the whole landscape. No orange-
grove could have been more fragrant. To walk between
the sweetness of those rows, reaching up here and there
to pluck a blossom out of the sky, was a blissful job. . . .

But it was a job, when one settled down to picking.
Two people could easily spend a morning endeavoring to
exhaust the resources of those magnificent vines; our
house could not hold them, nor our friends’ houses ; and
before summer was half over we were irritatedly mar-
keting sweet peas as a farm product. It was, as I have
said, our first season, and we were not sorry to have some-
thing to market, but I never want to be profitable over
flowers again. It hurts your feeling about them. You
pick, and pick; the sun is hot, and maybe you don’t feel
like picking; but it goes to your heart to let a blossom
fade. Market-basket after market-basket would be set
aside in the cool of the pear-orchard, and in the last hot
days of August, when our deep-rooted rows were still
triumphant and unscorched, we found ourselves sighing
for a frost! By that time the rows, from very weight
and luxuriance, began sagging this way and that; and
one day I had the horrible sensation of stepping on a
luscious cluster of Senator Spencer that trailed at my
feet. It seemed sacrilege. For I loved my sweet peas.
It was not their fault they had become laborious ; and I
resolved never again to make an economic burden of any-
thing so exquisite as a flower.

* * *

March 22.

After weeks of running away to the sea as fast as pos-
sible, we are drying up again. We are entirely brown!

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Only one crescent-shaped flick of snow — really a deep
drift — is visible on our acres, and that in the coldest cor-
ner of the mountain mowing, where all day it is shaded
by woods.

This brown, grassy landscape gives one the most de-
lirious feelings. “I ’d like to stand on my head in the
middle of it!” I told my amused child to-day. For
vacation is here, and a pale young thing has crept back
to the hills after a series of vicious colds acquired in a
steam-heated town, and has just begun, after days of
rest, to “endure” the “joggling of the saddle”! My
doughty, cowboy child, to whom a saddle has always been
the keenest joy! . . . But the hills are doing it. That
valiant look — for years my dependence — is returning;
the bursts of galloping over rough fields, the fearless
jumps at anything that presents itself; that nonchalant
seat on her horse; the laughing face turned back to
me. . . .

Yesterday we had almost a real ride — on our own land ;
though Polly and I, to our immense chagrin, had to stay
back and watch the beautiful antics of Maharajah and his
rider. Polly was so peeved, she joggled me more than if
I had let her join in the fun, backing and fussing, yawing
and traversing sidewise. Such fire in her old eye ! Such
a throwing of military feet ! The Maharajah was cutting
circles on the mountain mowing.

“I can do that!” shouts Polly. “Let me go!” And
she backed me straight at a woodchuck hole. As we
rode out of the woods, Pud leaped a low bar-way — at
which she hopped up and down in such wrath that I dis-
mounted, gave her rein to Babs, and let her have a run
with them.

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Our woods were reminiscently crusty underfoot, but
in the back pasture gray catkins were showing, black-
berry shoots very crimson, the solitary pines a beautiful
sea-green, and everywhere a bright rush of surface brooks
from the hillside where hemlocks and white birches grow.
(They are so lovely together, it seems as if they must
know it!) Through all this the horses splashed, finally
cantering (I had to let Polly go) up a slope to the birches
and guardian blackberries of our little camp — where they
picked their way with care. Polly knows a blackberry-
shoot as far as she can see it ; it is funny to feel her wind
herself around them and curve her stomach in and
out. . . .

The shack had withstood the winter better than we
feared, and “Does n’t the kitchen look nice 1” cried Babs
admiringly. (It is an outdoor kitchen.) The stone fire-
place was clean; the eight poplars that surround it were
green-barked and fresh, the slender shoots of a bulb-
plant pushing up through the gray-brown rug of leaves.
How sweet it all smelled of cold water and leaves and
mountain air ! And looked just ready for supper-getting.
One could hear sticks crackling. . . .

“Too wet!” I murmured.

“I suppose so,” sighed Babs. “Whitethroats haven’t
come yet. And it needs leaves !”

For without a lemon-colored twinkle overhead, and a
whitethroat sitting in it, we hardly know our camp.
Leaflessness, to be sure, gives us a long blue line of hills
showing through birches ; but what we have later suffices
us. And when the poplars are yellow, birches white and
lacy-green, our little glade jeweled with violets, then camp
is a place to lift the heart. People in limousines drive up

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THE LONE WINTER

to our house through the woods and, hearing us say that,
ask if “this is n't wild enough/'

Nothing is ; short of the Sierra ! Think of upholstery — •
and a piano — and china — and living on a road! ... I
sometimes regret our plentitude of belongings, and wish
for a log cabin with one great room and a fireplace; a
room where saddles and dogs would belong, and doilies
be a screaming inconsistency. For we have doilies; we
set things on. centerpieces in the middle of other things.
The house, even if it is a farm-house, seems to demand
it. One can't treat it like a cabin. . . .

As we rode home, twilight fell. The world looked as
if put together with shining seams, so twinkling with rills
were hillsides and the deep, dark valleys. After unsad-
dling, we stood by the corn barn and watched the full
moon rise. It rose at least an inch (sky-measure!) while
we watched.

“Just think,” said learned Babs (all fresh from
an astronomy book), “of the old earth's turning over
so fast. . . . Let me see — fourteen feet in a second,
it goes !''

It was my favorite Galsworthy moon, “tinted apricot
and figured like a coin”; lovely, over the cocoa-colored
woods. It stayed mellow a long time (moons usually
grow bright too soon), and was very large, flat, and pic-
torial. A good stage moon. As it rose it grew greener,
but still refrained from glitter ; the sky was indescribably
fair. Two lone planets twinkled, east and west ; a happy
bird sat in a pear-tree, gurgling sleepily. All the spring
sounds came to us — wateriness, and little airy murmurs,
and, far off, a faint peep that gave one a prophetic thrill
of frogs. There is a beautiful pool of them over in the

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THE LONE WINTER

woods, where they sit and whisper, on April evenings,
enough to break the heart. . . .

In the air, too, was that cold, clean, washed smell that
comes only in March ; of sopping meadows, brown grasses
under clear water, streaming hillsides, mats of soaked
leaves in the forest. The fresh wind blew it to one's
face. As the sky darkened, the moon, ever brightening,
tilted a knowing look downward, and at last the warm
house windows called to us. Firelight flickered on mellow
old ceilings; and the glowing shade of a lamp allured.
Knowing that it shone on books, we went in.

Regularly, with evening, comes a booky feeling ; that is
a great thing about life in the country. A fire, a lamp,
and across the table a dear person similarly buried — one
asks no more. And people inquire if one is not dull in
the evenings! Sometimes a need for prescribed sound
comes upon me, and (though all day I have been in music)
I go to the piano — which just now has a horrid tinniness
in the upper notes; but there are plenty of contralto
things to play. In fact I specially like themes carried
with the left, or tenor, thumb, while circumambient rip-
plings — or chords — proceed around it. There is some-
thing clinging, lingering, in the stroke of a thumb; it
seems to wipe tone out of an instrument. And my piano
is good, in that register of the tenor thumb. It does fire-
music, and andantes ; and any songs whose melody is car-
ried in the inside of the accompaniment. . . . All songs
should be written that way, for then they can be played.

. . . Experts speak of hens that are kind enough to be
“general-purpose birds” ; why not general-purpose songs ?
Songs are usually unfit for whistling — indeed, whistling
(except to the person doing it) is unbearable; so, when

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THE LONE WINTER

one is very fond of song music, one feels gratitude to the
discerning composer who allows his theme to be playable.
So nice of him ! I quite purr as I play. The piano seems
in good humor, too, consenting to nuances unknown to
its darker moods. For on foggy days this instrument
balks in the lower parts; one develops a technique not
only of successfully pressing notes down but of pulling
them up when they stick ! Where fogs last for days, as
at the shore, one grows expert at this ; but quite out of
practice here, our fogs being pretty, blowy, sunrise things
that play a little with mountains and valleys, then run
away. If they linger, it is generally in decorative dabs
and fragments, changing and moving always, so that if
anything thick really settles down on us we know it is
a cloud and are interested, not annoyed. It seems quite
worth while — having a cloud walking round one’s house
interfering with one’s piano.

A pair of juncos were hopping about the grass this
morning, perking and congratulating themselves. Juncos
are such chunky, jolly, satisfied little birds; and they
twirled in the rose-bushes, and picked invisible morsels
here and there, trilling their pretty trills of contentment
meanwhile.

To my great delight, a day or two ago, our phoebe
greeted me. She flew from the porch to the balsam-tree,
and phosbed at me while I watered Kim. She seemed to
think a pony in the back yard an excellent idea. Her
mate was flying in and out of the carriage shed,
meditating a nest. It is so good to have the friendly

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THE LONE WINTER

things around again ! All the birds seem very confiding ;
the perkiest song-sparrow in all the world, I am sure,
was demonstrating under my windows the other morn-
ing. There had been days of rain, and the packed leaves
were annoyingly soggy; but he was getting something
from under their edges, and his problem was — how to
ruffle those wet edges up enough. Apparently he could
not stand on one tiny leg and scratch, like a hen — that
was too pedestrian to suit the mood of a song-sparrow;
so with incredible quickness he hopped back and forth,
back and forth, in the space of an inch or less, dragging
his toes on the backward hop. A lovely and original way
to scratch leaves ; so much gayer than leaning on one leg
and agriculturally hoeing with the other ! And he looked
so indescribably dear doing it, with his brown tail slanted
up like a wren’s, and those threads of legs dancing!

Robins are now appearing en masse. There must have
been a hundred of them, all singing, in the terrace maples
to-day; I opened the door to a chorus of song. One
hears of them in the South like that, but New England
usually has them in smaller groups. I like robins en
masse . Seeing them perched in Alpha and Omega, I
thought of that famous but insulting line,

Bare ruined choirs, where once the sweet birds sang . . .

a beautiful line, which sends shivers of appreciation down
me; but the shivers are merely literary. The line is un-
true! A leafless tree is lovely — thoughtfully arranged
to see mountains through, and no more ruined than a
concert-hall between concerts. . . . But it is joyful, I
admit, to have the choristers back again ; and the breasts
of my hundred robins were imposingly bright in the sun.

t 2 S°]

I hope this does not mean that they are still in flight,
and are going on, the whole hundred of them, to the
north. We want them till the orioles come ; for an oriole,
in the liquid contralto of his tones, is a glorified robin,
and continues our immediate thrushiness far into the hot
weather. Real thrushes — and an occasional robin-cousin
— sing in our woods all summer ; but orioles bring their
fluting close about the house, having an enchanting way
of alighting on the tips of the sweet pea brush and holding
forth from there. A decorative custom! considerably
more charming than those painted birds on sticks, which
it is the fashion to insert above one’s flower-beds. . . .
Put up a sweet pea hedge, instead, and you will find real
birds perching. Brush seems irresistible. Even hum-
ming-birds come to rest on it, and flash their jeweled color
at the flowers.

Spring fever has attacked the ponies. I was afraid
it would. They think it must be the middle of May,
and I can just see them discussing, irritatedly, why it is
that “she” has n’t taken down those pasture bars yet.

“Ridiculous!” said Ocean Wave firmly. “Here it has
been positively hot for weeks, and we are still moldering
in this old yard. Mucky place! I loathe the very sound
of my hoofs squshing in it. . . . The lane is green. I
can smell it.”

“Yes,” agreed Kindness languidly. “And I feel all
queer. My legs are like strings. I ’m getting so I simply
hate this hay she brings out for us every day ; hay, hay,
hay. I won’t eat it. I ’ll eat mud — or fences ! . . . Ho !
don’t believe they ’re very strong, these fences ! D’ ye

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see this one, when I push it?” and she gave it a shove
with her chest. The other ponies, perceiving what was
in the wind, gathered eagerly around.

“Back you up!” cried young Carrick Dare, with shin-
ing eyes and an incipient foretop sticking out straight, —
which gave him an amusingly aggressive look, — “we ’ll
go wherever you do!” and they crowded close. Kind-
ness, with a new light in her eye, hooked her chin over
a board.

“It wiggles!” she cried. “Kind o’ splintery on the
edge ; but I ’ve got a pretty good beard still. Was wish-
ing, the other day, it would shed ; but now I ’m glad it
hasn’t. . . . Ouch! there she comes!” and the board,
splintering, fell. Ocean Wave trotted briskly up.

“Let me see!” she commanded. She measured her
chest against the remaining rails. “Too high!” she com-
mented, turning acidly to Kindness. “All very well for
you, with your long spindle-legs you ’re so proud of —
but we can’t jump that!” and she frowned displeasedly.
Kindness faced her, laying her ears back and swashing her
tail.

“Tell you what!” struck in little Bally Beg, — Bally
hates rows, — “there 9 s a place Errands and me was lookin’
at yesterday, down beyond the trough. We only worked
at it a little, but I believe we could make a hole there if
we tried. . . . We could crawl through; and you,” he
added tactfully, to the tall pony looking down on him
with scorn, “you could jump, if you ’d rather. You can
jump ’most anything!”

So the committee followed him to his hole. Ocean
Wave, twisting her head sidewise, stuck it through a little
way, then jerked it out again, “Don’t like that ? 3 she

E 2 52]

THE LONE WINTER

said, drawing up one nostril disgustedly. “Too low. . . *
What d’ ye think I am — a caterpillar ?”

“Let me try !” begged Carrick Dare. He is a middle-
sized pony, the first child of Thalma the Bullet — and a
most inconvenient animal to keep in, seeming able to
crawl where the smallest ones do, or leap with the tallest.
He inserted his head ; his eyes gleamed, as he sawed back
and forth. “Oo, what a place for a scratch!” he mur-
mured; “oo-oo!” The ponies waited patiently behind
him. He sawed and sawed. The boards bent a little,
made hopeful cracking sounds ; Errands and Bally moved
up, stretching their noses longingly toward the whiffs of
grass. . . . And still Carrick sawed.

“Pooh!” exploded Kindness, wheeling away. “Not
going to wait all day for him to scratch his silly neck ! . . .
Come on, let ’s try that bar-way over there. I saw Her
doing something to it the other day. Maybe it ’s getting
weak!” and a dozen of them poured hopefully’ across the
yard, leaving the absorbed three at Bally’s hole. The bar-
way leads into the lane, and is only a makeshift, taken
down in summer ; in winter, drifts are its able allies, but
now, bedded only in soft earth, it is in rather precarious
condition, and Babs and I had spent hours the day before,
propping it up. We are always sorry when those drifts
go ! The ponies gathered before it. Kindness and Ocean
walked up and down its length, inspecting and planning;
then Kindness, pausing, delivered herself of a theory.
(Being our champion climber, she has a right to
theories!)

“I don’t believe it ’s much good,” she said, scuffing at
her ear with one hind toe,” trying to just push things,
or wiggle ’em. It used to be — but She fixes ’em too often

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now. . . . You ’ve got to bang ’em ! Just go bang, all
together, and see what happens.”

“Suits me!” said forceful Ocean briefly. “It’s what
I ’ve been trying to tell you for the last month . . and
the two walked off conferring and snuffing at the
rails. . . . Remembering my everlasting noon potatoes,
which were in the oven, I darted into the house. “They
won’t do it — for a minute or two yet !” I gasped, flinging
open the oven door, being met by the gratifying scent of a
baked potato that is “just right,” and rolling them hastily
into a bowl. Then I dashed out again. Kim, who is my
guinea-hen among ponies and makes a frightful noise if
any of them get out, was looking interestedly over his
fence, but so far in silence. Half-way to the barn, how-
ever, a crash came to my ears.

“Sp-spl-inter — bang-ban g-snap !” *

“They ’re out !” I muttered. Kimmie was howling, and
diving at his fence. A sound of feet spatting on turf —
and there in the lane was a full flight of them, gamboling
joyfully out. . . . All colors, all sizes, but one idea pos-
sessing them : freedom ! Heels flew, manes and tails were
banners on the wind, and a glorious concourse trailed,
galloping, up the steep side of the first knoll. Against
the sky-line, now — circling, ever on the gallop, Ocean
Wave in the lead, white fore legs flashing, head waving
grandly this way and that.

A Delphic frieze ! and such color ! burnt grass, cool blue
sky, and pony-tints in looped design. . . . Despite my
wrath, I gazed at them with joy — and sympathy. How
I wished they could be out to stay ! But, if they began on
this first young sprouting grass, there would be a pink,
exhausted pasture by midsummer. Even sod must have

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its chance. Besides, the new wire was not yet up. April
is our classic month for fence-mending; and I wanted it
up by the time they were let out, trusting that, when con-
fronted by a fresh array of barbs, — and in the spring,
when any inch of pasture seems wonderful to them, —
they might forget their autumn badness and stay in.
But Kindness's plan had worked ; two bars were broken
off and lay with their splintered points in the lane. Evi-
dently the flying wedge had been tried. . . . And up in
the maple-grove I caught a glimpse of vanishing color —
bay and black and white — through the boles of the trees.
In a moment they would gallop through into the mow-
ings, — the upper bar-way was down, — and history would
repeat itself. . . .

No ! The sheds. I would shut them all in. Boot, sad-
dle, to horse, and away. Polly sent mud and water flying
as we dashed through the brook; she loves chasing sin-
ners; and, just as they were streaming along the leafy
trail by the wall, we circumvented them. “Boo-hoo-oo-
oooooo !” shrilled Goliath, enchanted at being on the job
again, and leaping at their astonished faces. With one
accord they turned tail, fleeting downward again faster
than they had come up. . . . How simple ! After a win-
ter's yarding, ponies are strangely innocent and be-
guilable; I had no trouble at all steering them into the
shed. They stood on three legs and puffed. Some of
them shut both eyes. All in, poor dears. And I but-
toned the half-door.

* * *

April 2.

Babs has gone again ; now begins the last lap of soli-
tude. Silence sits upon the landscape. Nature, I trust,

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will find her voice again; birds will carol, and brooks
babble . . . but just now I hear nothing.

Veils of hopeful green, however, are falling upon us
overnight. “Summer!” they say, and I smile, checking
off the weeks. It does feel like fishing, this hot sun. But
I sha’n’t go. Fishes can flourish, and brooks dwindle, for
2l me. I should hate it, with my dearest treading stony
streets.

How many winters I have sat on this hill, not alone to
be sure, but worrying about something ! For four winters
Babs and I worried steadily about the war. We have a
deep interest in Europe ; and her agonies hurt us. At the
age of twelve my child was impassionedly reading four-
column editorials on Russia; and, when we entered the
great conflict, it became my habit to dream, also passion-
ately, about Woodrow Wilson. . . . We were in a great
ship at night; a storm was on, and submarines darting
about. A green light wrapped the inward parts of the
ship. Woodrpw was steering. Things canted horribly
to one side ; the green light grew greener — it came from
the illuminated inside of waves. Apparently we were
deep down, like a submarine. But, furious as everything
was, and dark and gruesome, I knew it was all right, for
I could hear Woodrow’s calm voice up above. He was in
a pilot-house, or something shut up and invisible ; but he
was there. He seemed to be speaking a good deal. It
was very reassuring. I caught a glimpse of him just once,
through the gloom and the flying spray ; he had his glasses
on, and was perfectly collected and dry. . . . That seemed
quite as it should be, too. And I woke, exalted.

But we worried, partly, because we were not producing
the right things. Ponies were unpatriotic ; so we bought

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more cows and raised six calves to the confusion of the
Kaiser. . . . Our man went to the front. Other men there
were not. It was a winter of enormous snows, of sinister
gray weeks when the mercury stayed at twenty below zero
at noontime ; when it went “up to zero” it was warm ! We
still worried a little because we had not pigs enough to be
truly patriotic; but if we had more pigs it meant more
cows to provide milk for them, and every morning I strug-
gled with aching hands to milk two of our five, while my
talented child gaily performed on three in the same length
of time. . . . After breakfast, when the pails of milk
had been separated, and the calves and ponies fed, Babs’s
governess came over the drifted hilltop on snow-shoes,
and lessons began. So we did not see where we could get
in any more cows — into that part of the day, that is. And
you cannot defer a cow.

In the course of that winter I wrote as much as one
short story. It was called “War Apples” *and was a per-
fectly grand story. It had eighteen thousand words, and
may possibly have needed a little revising ; but I lost the
manuscript, and so “War Apples” went for the joy of
the doing. ... At twelve every day I rose, put on the in-
terrupting potatoes, climbed into one thousand and one
outer garments, and departed to do the noon chores. At
three, it became necessary to get down hay and prepare
for night. Dark fell early. Everybody had to be put in
and out once more, milked, watered, fed, bedded. Dead
hens had to be conveyed from the hen-house. Hens seemed
to love to die that winter. It was so cold they just toppled
off the roosts at night and stayed there. In the morning
they were frozen quite stiff. They seemed in perfect
health; they merely could not stay on the roosts. We

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THE LONE WINTER

grew exceedingly annoyed with our dead hens. Even our
Sally Henny- Penny died; and she was a pet hen that
used to go round the farm on our shoulders. If you said
“Sa-lly?” to her, with upward inflection, she would peer
up at you sidewise and remark “Ca-aa?” sweetly, in re-
turn. We took her for a drive once, and she was per-
fectly happy and conversed all the way. ... So we were
fearfully fond of Sally. And of Em’ly — a queer, appeal-
ing old gray hen with ruffled plumage and a hoarse voice,
so fiercely and unsuccessfully maternal that we had named
her after the Virginian's classic fowl. When we went
in one terrible morning with hot food and found Emily
stark, we really wept. It seemed too bad she could not
live to fail with another family. She took indefatigable
and truculent care of her babies, but something always
happened to them. Although she was very old, she never
changed in look or manner ; there seemed no reason why
she should not keep on indefinitely. Forty below was too
much for Em’ly, however — and for us. We have never
felt kindly toward that hen-house since.

This winter, to be sure, our dear Kimmie, “with shining
foot,” — the most adorable silvery ankles, Kim has! — has
lent cheer to that lugubrious spot, while he, from his

. . . morning sup

Of Heavenly Vintage from the soil looks up

to me in the bath-room window! (I’m sure hay, served
on snow-drifts, is Heavenly Vintage to Kim!) For he
is luckily robust, and does not sit on roosts. If he had
been that sort of beast, I never should have put him in
that haunted place — in company with that “Angel of the
Darker Drink” we met so often there. . . . Yes, it gave

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one queer, Rubaiyatish feelings sometimes. ... A world-
tragedy was going on ; there was toil, and tragedy, on the
farm. . . . Altogether, a year deeply indented in our
souls.

Spring has indeed come. Last night I hired a team to
do plowing! And to-day I have had a visit from the
“lister” — which sounds like mouth-wash, but means taxes.
Our lister is a pleasant man, who owns stock himself, so
we stood amiably around the barn-yard in the hot sun and
scrutinized the animals, arranging their valuations while
they snuffed curiously at the lister’s clothes, or nibbled
his books and papers. Donlinna was most courteous and
hostess-like, bending her neck prettily and escorting the
visitor everywhere he walked — until the chance tearing
off of a sheet of paper sent her flying in dismay. The
world is “so new and all” to Donny; I feel quite sorry
for her when I think how many things she has to learn.

. . . Elizabeth, too, was stretching her little nose to under-
stand all about it; so, what between calculations about
ponies on the farm, ponies in the village, ponies in other
townships, and the immediate devotion of ponies in the
yard, we had a perplexed time of it. Rates, of course,
have gone up. Is there ever a year when they do not?

All farmers seem to have the delightful idea that Shet-
lands, being small, are worth tuppence-ha’penny at the
most, draft-horses and cattle being in this region the only
important things, and smaller beasts at a discount. So,
every April when I note the earnest expression with which
the lister inquires how many cows I have, I am once more
grateful we are not conducting a dairy. Cressy even,

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THE LONE WINTER

in her lone state, came in for most solemn inquiries this
morning. How old was she ? And when did she
“freshen” ? And would I call her “a good cow, all straight
and right”? . . . Then would so many dollars be satis-
factory? “No, of course you would n’t sell her for that;
I see she’s a pet!” remarked our friend pleasantly; at
which Cressy, chewing, regarded him for a moment, then
moved up and extended a long tongue to his coat-sleeve.
The lister smiled, but ascended the salt-rocks.

What would people in our barn-yard do without those
rocks?

A transcendent day. Birds shouting, sun shining, tem-
perature at seventy, and breakfast on the wicker table on
the porch. The sun comes just right upon that porch;
there is a strip of shade over your head, yet delicious
warmth spreads, rug-like, over your lap and hands. The
coffee-pot can sit in a spot of sunshine and keep warm,
while cream, butter, and marmalade retreat into the happy
shadow of a post. The winds seldom strike you, though
a wind at seventy is not unwelcome ; so Boo and I, with
Goliath blissfully stretched on the turf below (with a bit
of grassy bank for a pillow), had a beautiful bask in all
that breakfast outdoors brings to one. Bluebirds made
color in the old orchard. The air palpitated with song.
Across the valley the Bagley woods are becoming soft-
bosomed; each tree-top is shaped and paled with spring.
And that has happened since day before yesterday! . . .
Lunch, at the siesta time of the birds, was not so songful,
but exquisite in its own way; and Boo-boo sat on the
step purring, and adoring his world. . . .

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THE LONE WINTER

When Polly and I rode home from the mail, we found
gloaming coming on, an apricot-tinted glow behind the
trees, and — my Cressy, mooing on the wrong side of the
bars, in the pasture lane ! Cressy, the pious, — the non-
jumping, — how had she ever conveyed her unwieldy self
across the rails? I never even look to see if she is in
the yard — she always is ; and here she was outside, moan-
ing repentantly. . . .

“Coming, Cressy!” I called; and an expectant head
turned toward me. Taking a bridle-rein from Polly, I
climbed the fence and looped the rein about the cow’s
soft neck. “We ’ll have to go ’way round, Cressy,” I
murmured (for these bars had been nailed up tight) ;
“d’ ye mind a walk ?”

Surprised but docile, she turned and followed — away
from her beloved barn, along the glooming lane, then
up the slopes into the maple-grove. At first she greatly
desired to help me by carrying a piece of the bridle-rein
in her mouth, — Cressy loves leather, — but acceded
sweetly to my suggestion that she drop it, and labored
along behind me, treading in my tracks. She puffed and
-blew, as the climb grew steep ; I stopped a moment to let
her breathe. The evening, though soft and still, had a
whispering April beauty. From the woods came the peep-
ing of frogs; overhead was a murmur in the trees.
Though the hills were darkened, they yet had color, and
above their rim the afterglow had deepened. The scent
of pasture turf, of old leaves packed by the wall, of
earthiness from a bank where sumacs grew ; the mysteri-
ous scent of twilight itself, of a spring evening under the
stars, came to us there as we waited. The twinkle of a
lone planet above the mountains seemed vital, as if it, too,

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THE LONE WINTER

must be giving off sound and scent. Orion, flung across
the southern sky, was preparing for his long dive behind
the western woods; and low over those woods shone
Venus, clear, green, sparkling. . . .

Behind me Cressy suddenly puffed a great sigh, turn-
ing her gentle head toward the hills. “Want to stay out
here ?” I asked her ; but we paced silently on. The path,
wandering under a fringe of trees by the mowing, grew
dusky, but it is the favorite and leafy route of escaping
ponies, and Cressy and I knew it well. ... A cow, I
reflected, is an amiable thing! Here in the unseemly
gloaming, — for cows are orderly creatures and want to
fold up to sleep when darkness comes, — away from bed
and supper and everything dear to the bovine heart, we
were steadily going; and yet she followed me without a
protest. One could have led her with Ariadne’s silken
thread — or with a hand on her neck. In fact, we were
walking that way then, side by side, step for waddling
step. Her neck was warm and smooth ; her head nodded
energetically. Cressy toes out shockingly; one had to be
quite sure one was beyond the range of those funny, wide-
forking feet, with their scoopy action. That, and her
waddle, made one feel oddly stiff, and up and down in
one’s own gait. . . .

But, when we turned down into the upper mowings,
Cressy’s exquisite silkiness departed as if by magic.
Three sinning ponies were out in that field, grazing busily
— little they care about folding up at dark! — and they
greeted us with wondering whinners.

With a snort and a caper, Cressy dived toward them.
“Headed for home !” she gamboled, “I know it ; I feel it !”

Not caring to be pulled down darkening banks at that
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THE LONE WINTER

pace, I dug in my heels and hauled on the bridle-rein.
“Whoa !” I cried, “silly old thing !” to which she responded
with a grand flourish of heels. Flinging a loop around
her horns, I tried to quell this sudden joyousness (Cressy
usually hates things round her horns) ; but to-night the
stars and frog-songs must have gone to her head, for all
the way down she impetuously led me, nose in air. In the
mowing lane her ardor was not to be restrained. Swing-
ing around the comer of the raspberry-bushes, and drag-
ging me with her, she bolted for the front hay barn door,
thus entering the stable wrong-way-to. Horses go in at
this end, cows invariably from the rear ; so Cressy found
her world bouleverse , and was aghast. She shied at the
grain-bin, caromed into little Queen, — who was eating her
supper in the aisle, — tumbled over a scared Elizabeth, was
narrowly missed by a pass from Donny’s hind foot, —
what was a cow doing, in here ? — and finally landed,
breathing heavily, and hastened by a nip from Lassie, in
her own stanchion. ... We both gave a sigh of relief
when the cross-bar of the cow-chain, worn silver-smooth
with countless fastenings, slipped greasily into its ring.
... A cow-chain is lovely to handle, its texture really a
pleasure. It is the only sort I ever touch without being
hurt! For, of all unpersuadable objects, a chain, to me,
is the worst. George Eliot describes one of her char-
acters as having “a tendency to harden under beseech-
ing” ; if that eminent author had been trying to draw the
portrait of the average chain the moment it reaches my
fingers, it could not have been more accurate. Fat, heavy
sled-chains; stake-chains; logging-chains ; wheel-chains;
long, twiny, sinister chains for “snaggin* ” — all, coveted
farm property (there is a rush, at auctions, when the

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THE LONE WINTER

chains are put up), and my detestation! ... I have the
most absurd fingers. They are slimpsy and flexible, and
get hurt over anything. Now, my Babs has, by some
heaven-sent gift, the most lovely, strong, picket-fence
fingers; just the sort that can conquer a wrench, a
mowing-machine, or any other awful contrivance. . . .
So I leave chains to my child and stand by, feeling hor-
ribly incompetent . . . but oh! the prideful twirl with
which I fasten up a cow. If there were a fire, I do be-
lieve I could undo cows as fast as anybody — and hang up
the chains afterward! That is supposed to be the test of
the tyro ; but it comes to be mere instinct. Hang on to the
ring as the chain rattles down ; out ducks the cow from
under your arm, up goes the ring on its nail — all in a
twinkling. Even I can’t do it any other way now, and
fully realize the crime of letting a chain fall to the floor
in a heap, to be trodden by passing cow feet. . . . And
then, when your animal comes in again, you have to fish
around her neck to find it, — a neck that seems just then
abnormally large, warm, and in the way, — and as, at the
same instant, she is apt to lunge forward to see if her
supper is there, the results are language, a bumped head,
and an indignant cow.

Cressy and I, however, have a perfect understanding.
She knows just how I do it; so we part in silken peace, I
to the haymow, Cressy to do her elephant-dance of expec-
tation, all nicely ready to blow at me when I let down her
wooden window.

* * *

April s.

A strange day, beginning and ending with frights.
Having sat up late over a book the night before, I was

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THE LONE WINTER

roused from a pleasant dream by the sound of cheerful
whistling, and the rattle of a team coming up our hill!
Horror-stricken, I leaped out of bed. It was the plow-
boy! I could see the handles of the plow protruding
above the sides of the wagon ; and I should have to show
him the field!

With an attempt at a casual “I 'll be out in a minute !”
from behind incriminating bedroom curtains, I heard the
‘ team start to go rattling round into the yard. A moment’s
respite, anyway! . . . Stockings, a riding-skirt, a smart
ulster; four hair-pins in one’s hair, a velour sport-hat
clapped upon that; goloshes as a finish. . . . Devoutly
hoping the boy would not notice a slight sloopiness as to
ankles, I careered through the house, slowing down to a
dignified exit at the back door. A raw wind was blow-
ing; climate had changed overnight, and a cold gray cloud-
fog enwrapped us, so, as far ahead as possible in the
comfortable fogginess, I strode, Goliath shieldingly at my
heels, — dear dog, wagging his tail off with pleasure at this
early walk ! — up the mowing road, and on, and down, and
around, my ulster skirts flapping about me (why need one
have chosen the very remotest field on the farm to raise
oats on?), finally reaching the broad hilltop where agri-
culture was to begin.

It was extremely breezy. Conversation as to method,
boundaries, and other correlated matters ensued, till my
teeth chattered in my head ; and when I ventured the un-
guarded remark, “Dear me, how cold it is !” the boy gave
a sudden giggle !

I glanced sharply down at my attire. It felt flappy,
but all was perfectly right, and, much relieved, I watched
him steering the big horses down the slope. Such an

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THE LONE WINTER

admirable straight brown furrow, laid back so beautifully
on the sod! Babs and I had plowed a little during the
war; I knew what a straight furrow means. . . . The
boy was welcome to giggle if he could plow like that. . . .

At the house I found, with a sense of injury, that it
was only a few minutes past seven. A needlessly early
boy. Glancing into the kitchen mirror as I passed, I
stopped short ; above the collar of the smart ulster peeped
a frill of white hamburg embroidery! *(The unmistakable
sort.) With a smothered exclamation, I tucked it in. . . .
Hat, nonchalance, carefully buckled goloshes — all in vain !
. . . When I saw that boy again, I vowed, I would be
dressed — so dressed, that my splendor would outweigh
all the hamburg in the world! and got my best riding-
things defiantly out — to feed ponies in. . . .

The plowing on the upland piece was soon ended, for
my breakfast was interrupted by a dolorous boy on the
back porch.

“Hev you got another plow ?”

“A plow!” I exclaimed, “why, you brought one with
you !”

“Yas ’m. But I did n’t bring my knife with me. Knife
that fits on the plow. An’ the sod ’s jest tough enough
so the plow keeps jumpin’ out o’ the furrow. . . . Hev
you got one with a knife in it?”

“Oh!” I said. “No, we haven’t. But you can start
on the other piece of ground, you know — the old buck-
wheat patch; there’s no sod on that.”

“Yes.’m,” he murmured. (No giggles now — a sub-
dued and serious boy.) “An’ to-morrer I ’ll bring up
my knife.”

So calamity was averted. All day long the faithful

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THE LONE WINTER

team moved over the piece till it stood out boldly choco-
late-colored on the hillside. A charming sight l For
so long the farm had been all one color, a sort of drab,
last year’s crop ground being scarce different from the
tan-brown of the mowings; and that purple patch on
the hillside was so obvious a record of the day’s achieve-
ment. ... I wish writing stood out chocolate-colored
when it’s done! It has a way of slinking so modestly
into a pile of manuscript that in the evening one turns
up pages and peers wistfully within to make sure one
has done anything. . . .

In farming there is no need to peer wistfully. Your
planting or hoeing or harrowing looms out for all the
world to see, as does also the hoeing and harrowing
that you have not done — or the weeds you have inad-
vertently let grow. The blossoming kale in our oat-
patch one year (a mortifying oat-patch, perched on a
knoll visible to the main road!) was a golden splash,
beautiful against the sky, but horrifying to the soul of
the farmer. . . . You can’t always help having kale ; the
seed will lie in the soil “for forty years, ma’am,” an old
farmer told me, shaking a mournful head, and, as soon
as that ground is plowed, up come the young plants,
undiscouraged by sequestration under the sod. This
particular oat piece had been “in grass” ever since we
bought the farm, and so it was quite a surprise to see,
as a result of our innocent agriculture, so copious a
visitation of the sins of the fathers springing up and
blooming on our well-meant knoll.

And then those kale-seeds (the new and splendid crop)
are harvested with your oats, threshed with them, and
so distributed — via the fertilizer which you cast on other

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ground next season — nicely over your land. A clever
system. No one but a weed would have thought of it.
And yet, when I caught the curve of its gold against a
dark-blue mountain, I couldn’t help a throb of joy! It
was lovelier, for all its iniquity, than the praiseworthy
sheet of greenish-white buckwheat-blossoms opposite.
But the buckwheat made up on scent. There are few
things more delicious than a field of it after sunset; one
can almost see that perfume ascending, sweet incense to
a summer evening. . . .

After the tired team had taken their sweaty coats down
the hill, the accustomed stillness descended upon the farm
once more. It was a gray night, with no wind; as I
sat by the fire small sounds were much in evidence.
Startlingly loud, in fact! The room cracked, the wood-
fire ticked; outside the house, something — the tip of a
rose-bush, or a stray straw from the banking— scratched
against the clapboards, while from the ceiling the chip-
munk-scamperings made me jump, so near and personal
they sounded. ... I sat late, absorbed in my book. In
his comer Goliath dreamed and twitched. Just as I
was growing delightfully drowsy, from the house-front
came a series of loud knocks — bang, bang, bang, bang,
bang !

My eyes flew open and I sat up, staring hauntedly at
the windows. Goliath, with wild ears turning every way,
also started up. We stared at each other. ...

Again came the knocks : Bang — bang — bang — bang!
Slow, distinct, intentional. The dog whined. A cold-
ness gripped me; I sat rigid. . . . Whoever it was could
see in perfectly— the shades were up; there was no use
doing anything. If he was coming in, he would co me .

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My hair was partly down — I put a hand up to it, won-
dering if he was looking at that. . . . Gradually heart-
beats subsided. Nothing seemed to happen. Unstiffening
a little, I took up my book. Magnificently awake, now —
might as well read ! ... But it was hard to put my mind
on it. I had read one paragraph three times, when —
Bang! louder than before, came from the side window.
This was too much. Leaping up, I faced round; and
there, pressed against the window-pane in full lamplight
was — a face ! . . . A round, yellow, imploring face, with
a great black rat-mustache across it ! . . .

I felt my mouth close— hard; but I let him in; I ap-
plauded his rat, or his dormouse, or whatever it was, —
one of those queer, blunt-nosed creatures he has been
getting lately (it must have been the bumps he made,
killing it in the banking, that we had heard), — and then,
“Boo!” I said in level tones, carefully carrying him to
the door with the treasure still gripped in his mouth;
“when it next comes upon you to slay things at eleven
o’clock at night, kindly do not do it against the house.
... It ’s rather noisy, dear !”

Setting him down upon the mat, a soft, purring, little
form, all lovingly humped over his rat, I closed— and
bolted — the door.

* * *

April 6.

I came to the sad conclusion, several days ago, that
Elizabeth must be weaned. Thalma is showing the strain
of the long winter, and needs her resources for her
own benefit; but how she will mourn the child she has
had with her so long! Outwardly she is not an emo-
tional mother, yet Elizabeth has been devotedly looked

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after ; at the baby’s least cry a tense little sopt-black figure,
with snapping eyes, would come trotting up — and woe
betide the rash pony that was making free with Eliza-
beth! That pair — fat, black mother, and the strangely
fair, perfect youngster — have been our great pleasure
during walks in the pasture. We knew Elizabeth was
getting the best grass ; Thalma was a canny grazer, and
always steered for the richest spots, for clovery hol-
lows, or clumps of tender green growing under shelter
of ferns or bushes. The sweetest tips of young thistles,
the first shoots of the delicious raspberry, were shown
to the baby’s intelligent nose, stretched eagerly beside
her mother’s; and very soon Elizabeth needed no show-
ing. Her head was in all the succulent places. Such a
happy little face would be lifted to us out of the ferns
in which it was buried ; and Mother Thalma would come
sociably along to turn up an amiable but keen eye and
inquire if we didn’t think the baby was coming on,
rather — eh? And she and Elizabeth would tag fondly
after us as we strolled. . . .

But this could n’t go on indefinitely ; there was Eliza-
beth’s next brother or sister to be thought of, and
so, slipping a halter on Thalma’s unsuspecting head, I
led her to the hen-house. (Kimmie by this time had been
transferred to a box in the lower stable.) I took Thalma
in, and shut the door in her face. She knew ! Through
the window an anguished eye gazed out at me, as she
tried in vain to find a hole in the netting. The black
nose searched and searched, denting itself against the
wire meshes; then, abandoning this idea, she rushed to
the door and pried at it furiously. Poor little mother!

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I left her running back and forth across a pile of disre-
garded hay, calling wildly to her child. . . .

In the barn-yard Elizabeth, too, was flying distractedly
about. “Mother! Mother!” she was shrieking. She ran
at full speed through all the sheds, out again over the
salt-rocks — up to the gate, back again, with pelting feet,
to the sheds. “Mother, where are you?” The other
ponies stared at her in surprise. Ocean frowned se-
verely. But their opinions were now nothing to Eliza-
beth; blinded by anxiety, she raced unseeingly by — or
bumped into them obliviously. “Mother! Mother!” I
turned away, biting my lip. It is an awful thing, this
separating babies and mothers. One never feels so abso-
lute a beast. . . .

For hours the little thing whinnered and searched ; for
hours I heard the flute-like call flying from one end of
the yard to the other. At last she took a distracted drink.
As she hastily gulped, ears backward, eyes roving mis-
erably around, Bally Beg, a soft-hearted little fellow,
came and stood by her, gently nibbling her shoulder;
evidently sorry for her distress. Finishing her drink,
however, Elizabeth brushed by him. I don’t think she
knew he was there; and at intervals during the rest of
the day I saw her little nose pressed 'against the bars
of the big gate. . . . Mother must have gone outside!
So Elizabeth stood and watched.

The ponies played their evening games, hay was
brought, and, when the barn door was opened to the
crowd of young ones, Elizabeth hopped eagerly up the
stone step and raced to her corner. “Mother ! Mother !”
For a moment she stared wildly round, then bolted about

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the stable, head up, eyes flashing. . . . Mother must be
here! She was always somewhere . . . . Sunny, with a
very cross face, shooed her out of his stall. Superb
raised a threatening heel. Even small Queen looked up
irritatedly from her hay, — which Elizabeth so often
shared, — as the poor baby, rushing by, bumped into her.
What was her chum fussing about so — tearing up and
down? Why could n’t she come and eat; or at least stop
banging into people who were trying to eat. . . . And
Queen frowned, swashing a grubby little black and white
tail in disgust.

I shook the measure of oats enticingly. Elizabeth
merely looked at me, panting, with fixed eyes. Patting
her, and talking the baby- jargon that Elizabeth responds
to, I led her over; sniffing at the oats, -she took a few
in her mouth, but suddenly — up went her head, the wild
expression came back, and shaking off my hand she dashed
away, tail out, every muscle taut. . . . Could she have
heard Thalma, in the distant hen-house, calling? Listen
as I would, I could hear nothing. . . .

I took Thalma her supper. She tried desperately to bolt
by me as I opened the door, but was met by a blockade
of hay. I set her grain by the window ; but all Thalma’s
mother-soul was at that door. Her eyes, big and fiery,
stared and stared ; when I went out the door nearly caught
her nose. A shrill call followed me.

For all the feeding and pampering I could do during the
next week she was alarmingly neglectful of her food. By
the window she mostly stood, staring out with eyes no
longer fierce and wild, but sad with a steady sadness. Al-
ways she rushed at the opening door ; and not until I had

[2723

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gone entirely away and hope faded would she bend a
languid head to her food.

For days, too, Elizabeth whinnered and searched. Her
efforts became fainter as time passed ; but she grew per-
ceptibly thinner; so one day, when a decided tinge of
green had spread over the mowings, I let her and old
Superb out. (It might be bad for the mowings, but any-
thing to console Elizabeth!)

It was a sad mistake. At first they both cropped eagerly
at the green blades ; but soon a bright idea flashed upon
Elizabeth — a brighter one than I dreamed she was capable
of. Now she could find her mother! who must be some-
where in these fields which had been, in autumn, their
happy running-ground. Full of hope, the baby bounded
up the mowing lane, calling loudly. I lost sight of her
for a moment ; then she appeared again on a knoll, wheel-
ing in all directions, starting here and there, giving shrill
little calls, then, with uplifted tail, dashing away into
the meadows. Her cries floated back, now here, now
there ; presently a panting little woolly form came flying
down the lane, but stopped short by the raspberry-bushes.
For an instant she seemed to listen ; then with a wild call
rushed off toward the house.

I watched in dismay. Thalma must have been an-
swering; and Elizabeth, now filled with agonized con-
viction, galloped vainly round trying to locate her mother’s
voice. Poor little Blondel! singing her song first under
the kitchen window, then by the wall of the wood-shed;
then dashing over to the hen-house and pausing under its
windows, her eyes black with longing, her whole being
a-quiver. I trembled lest Thalma’s nose might be visible

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— but the little minstrel was pressed too close against
the boarding; so she soon went speeding faithfully away
again. "Mother ! Mother !” Up the lane, across the field ;
down, at topmost speed, by the spring in the lower meadow
— no am ount of grass would make up for such racing;
she would run herself tired out. So I beguiled her into
the winter yard once more.

After a time she settled down, played once more with
Bally Beg, even got up spirit to tease her big chum Don-
linna again; but the look in her eyes was different. The
world no longer held a mother’s love ; and her roundness
and prettiness, which she had kept so long, began to fall
into the leaner lines of the yearling.

Elizabeth’s babyhood was over.

* * *

April 7.

Boo-boo has had a great day. It has been hot, almost
sticky; “all mimsey were the borogoves”; that is, the
ponies in the yard, who lopped exhaustedly around. Not
so Boo. He has followed my every step. Whenever he
jumped down from anything, he alighted with a musical
proo! if he dashed around by some subterranean passage
and suddenly met me in the barn, he announced the fact
by his trill of joy. ... I consulted him about everything.
He was quite sure, he told me, rubbing his head against
my elbow as he stood on the edge of a manger, that it
was a good idea to give Dolly extra grain because I was
beginning to use her more; he also suggested that I might
leave the lid of the grain-chest permanently open, so
that a person who wished to hunt might bob in at will.

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THE LONE WINTER

As it was he nearly got shut in there for the day, having
ensconced himself in a shadowy corner to wait for the
grain-chest mouse. . . .

That mouse is one of my trials ! As a rule I enjoy a
mouse; I like to see a bright little face peering at me
from a beam, but to have this persistent atom leap at my
face every time I bend' down after oats is somehow rather
horrid. ... I screamed this morning! A very mild
scream, but I felt vastly ashamed ; and Boo-boo, sitting on
the door-sill, came scampering to my rescue. He and
Goliath both know all about that magic word “mouse”
and cooperate beautifully. When I open the big chest in
the corn barn, Goliath, thrilled and whimpering, guards
the door; as I grasp the lid I whisper, “Mouse, Boo!”
when a furry yellow thing is beside me in an instant,
perching on the rim. I fling up the cover — splosh! s cutter-
bang-whop ! and Boo-boo leaps up again, with a mouth-
ful of mouse. ... In the bam, therefore, he insists on
getting all mixed up with the wooden measures, till I tell
him I shall have to give my Polly a cat-breakfast if he
does n’t get his fat self out of the way.

“Two heaping quarts of cat, Boo-boo?” I inquire
fondly ; “d’ you think she ’d like that, for a change ?”

Toward evening I grew very tired. I had written and
ridden and labored with hands ; I had bossed and directed
and bargained and been for the mail; so, when met by
a congratulating cat in the kitchen at supper-time (and
being much wound about as to ankles), I looked at the
arrears of dishes stacked on the sink-board and remarked
plaintively :

“Boo-cat, I have worked all day. I ’ve written a thou-

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sand words and talked, I ’m sure, as many more. ... In
the words of Mr. Dolls, Boo, I am er man er talent
and I wont wash dishes to-night !”

Whereat Boo, diligently rubbing off half an inch of
hair on me, responded, “Pr-ow! ... I wouldn’t.”

Corroboration is ever pleasant, especially when one is
too tired to make up one’s own mind. “The question is,
Boo, do I need any protein to-night. It’s so hot. . . .
Must one cook an egg — or not?”

My adviser at once sat down with a negative back
to me, purring amiably. “Please yourself, Missis!”

I omitted the egg. Later, much cheered by a protein-
less meal, I began loudly singing, “A Book of Verses,
underneath the Bough”; which Boo, though not partial
to vocal exercises, endured well until the high note in
“Para di-ise e-now !” when he hopped down from his chair
and pulled imploringly at my sweater.

“Don’t, please!”

I leaned and picked him up. “Very well, Boo; I’ll
carry cats instead”; at which he clung to me, wheezing
gratefully. Soon I forgot and sang in his ear — when he
became instantly silent again, and lolled limply over my
shoulder. No Rubaiyat, for Boo! Its tone — or his
Missis’s! — evidently depresses him, for it took several
minutes of vigorous and unsongful attention to cheer him
up. . . .

And then we two went for a twilight stroll in the lane.
The moon, was coming slowly up ; its pale light spread
faintly about us; and Boo escorted me — in mad rushes.
... So wonderful, to have all one’s four paws in a grassy
rut at once! and those delicious, squiddly feelings all the
way from one’s distracted ears to one’s stub — now quirk-

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ing madly. And then it became suddenly piquant to have
all one's feet outside the rut; to scutter along with a
desperate expression, stomach dragging, and grasses
tickling one horribly beneath. ... It was astonishing
what a clatter those soft feet could make, as they charged
after me; I jumped around once, to see what was com-
ing! .. . 'Trrrrrr-oo !” gasped Boo, scuttling by; and
flattened himself in my path.

So he kept one smiling with his comedies. Later, he
spent the evening in my lap, and slept (an unusual treat)
on Babs's bed. Boo is a dear little chaperon. We slept
till long after dawn.

Stranger and stranger grow the days. Fresh snow on
Ascutney; bloodroot blooming in the woods! Ascutney
is beautiful, this gray morning, with a sprinkle of white
on his dark-blue; but I prefer the blossom-white that
sparkles among the brown leaves under maples and
beeches. Those very first flowers, in a glass on the table
this morning, gazed adorably at me from their charm-
ingly set petals, with their golden eyes. I smiled at them ;
we had marmalade. Festivity was in the air. Nature,
instead of being something to combat, has all of a sudden
grown cooperative. Spring and I are floating together,
hand in hand, down an easy stream. Everything pro-
gresses, whether I do anything to help or not: grass is
bright green; rhubarb is shooting — mere crimson bumps
in the shade of the com barn, but puckered foliage and
two-inch stems in the sun. The pale, swollen buds on
the elderberry-bush have turned into fat little clumps of

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leaves. Real leaves ; growing ones ! not the flat and life-
less sort through which one has scuffed so long ; and tiny,
prophetic, yellow-green plantains ornament the edge of
my path to the barn.

In the woods, the mottled leaves of adder’s-tongues
have thrust through their matted covering. The wood-
creatures are racing to get ahead of me. ... It is won-
derful, after the long obstinacy of winter, to be so helped.
I had n’t even wished for bloodroot yet ; but there it was,
and I had to steer Polly so that she wouldn’t step on
it. Hepaticas, too, a spray of them, pale lavender, spring-
ing from gray-brown leaves. Hejpaticas are rare in our
woods. Polly by that time was tied to a tree ; I was the
one who nearly stepped on them. I was n’t dreaming of
hepatica! The boys and I were after ash-trees, and
I was determined to sight one as soon as they did;
in the gray woods-mob, it is so easy not to see an ash.
(Our wild cherry posts, though strong and lasting, were
scraggy, and took too long to cut. It seemed as if the
trees grew in thick clumps, on purpose!) . . . The ash-
tree must be tall, straight, and near a wood-road. A
perfect one grew in an impassable thicket of hemlocks;
another surmounted an unattainable cliff. At last we
found one, “ ’bout two hundred foot tall !” as the boys
admiringly said. Laying their faces against the trunk,
they squinted up it. Then they murmured together.

“Anything the matter?” I asked.

“When ye look up it, it looks abaout like a rainbow!”
cried one of them. Was this obscure woodland poetry, I
wondered — or an objection? Why should an ash-tree
resemble a rainbow?

“ ’T ain’t real straight,” explained the nearest boy, “but
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THE LONE WINTER

’twill do for posts”; and it was then that I nearly trod
on the hepatica.

It had been three years since I had seen one. City-
dwellers rarely do, hepaticas and March mud being, un-
happily, synchronous. But our woods this year are de-
liciously dry. ... A fragrance, as of forgotten springs,
swept through them on a little breeze; violets, hemlock,
leaf-mold, the cold smell of pure waters — what wasn’t
there in that whiff ? Polly, at her tree, drew a deep breath
of it; her ears steadily pricked, she gazed at far moun-
tains. “Bloodroot, Polly?” I remarked, and held out a
cluster. But she did not even nibble. She sniffed very
gently at the blossoms — ears still pricked, a sweet, far-
away look in her eyes. In the stable she would have
grabbed unromantically for those flowers! Here, her
expression was actually sentimental. She held her nose
out for a moment more, then very slowly withdrew it.
My Polly! who does everything in jerks! And for a
little I stood there, simply enjoying the sight of my dear
steed — who had been one wild fidget under the saddle —
in this idyllic and absent-minded state. Her eyes, full
of sweetness, were on the far mountains again ; her rub-
ber-nose twitched slightly. Bless her ! and I turned away,
adding three hepaticas to my bunch, but leaving seven in
the clump (would that be enough for seed, I hoped?).
I was ready to go home, but could n’t bear to hurry Polly
out of that rare mood. Let her stand at her sapling and
dream. ... I know the joy of a mood!

People try to persuade me out of farming. They say
a person who writes or paints should have no cares. The
Chickadee sighs because I keep a cow.

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But it is so easy to have a cow. Much easier than not !
• . . And so charming. My Cressy is as amusing as “a
subscription to ‘Life.’ ” Besides, she is my friend. I
love the funny old thing. A friend is n’t a care ! Ponies,
too. I admit that at times they have kept one rather on
a string; but what earned adjunct to an income is there
that does n’t? The ponies put jam on our bread; in fact,
as things are now, they supply about half the loaf. Is
there any other pursuit that furnishes one fraction of the
joy, as a by-product, that farming does? Here I was just
going out for posts, and what blossoms and poetry did I
not come upon? No matter how exasperatedly one starts
out, one returns rewarded, whether it is from a trip to
the barn on a stormy evening, when your lantern makes
a golden richness in the brown shadows, and everything
smells of hay and milkiness, and the beasts are so sleepily
pleased to see you that they quite melt your heart; or
from a dash through a star-lit barn-yard, on some anxiety
or other, with a freezing wind blowing, but with Venus
and a young moon putting your eye out over the top of
the wall; or from a fagging jaunt in a twilight rain after
escaped ponies, when the graying mountain world grows
beautiful beyond any dream, and one pushes the soaked
hat-brim from one’s eyes and thanks a kind heaven for
sending .one out to see it. . . .

We are too lazy, or too busy, or too unrealizing, to get
at beauty ; we have to be shoved out into it, and if it is
your vocation that does the shoving thank it with all your
soul. Give up farming? Not while I love air and moon-
light and gray rain and bird-song and the woods — and
a million other things that go with it. If farming did
not drag me out, I should miss them. ,. . . Thoreau raves

[280]

against farmers ; he only likes the bad ones, he says. So
I am sure he would like me. I must be a shocking farmer ;
this morning I got up at eight! But it was Sunday; I
was n’t expecting any plowboy ; and the animals were as
happy as usual, for they had been fed at eight the night
before ! ... Of course they should n’t have been fed at
eight in the evening; but it was because of a whole se-
quence of things, including a fearful rain, that Dolly
and I couldn’t help; though I suppose a perfectly good
farmer — the kind Thoreau hated — would have helped
them. That was where the shockingness came in. . . .
But if you are just a little shocking once in a while, you
can do a lot of things on a farm besides farming.

April io.

I have one cheerful, and one melancholy, boy, both
mending fence most harmoniously. I happened to over-
hear the greeting between them, as the cheerful one drove
with a gay swirl into the yard, the melancholy one" came
slouching down the lane, and they united to unhitch the
cheerful boy’s horse.

Melancholy Boy [faintly]. Wal, haow do you feel
this mornin’?

Cheerful Boy [enthusiastically] . Fine!

M. B. [very dolorously ]. I don’t!

C. B. Oh, you wuz born tired ’n hungry !

And in entire amicability the unhitching went on. The
melancholy boy is not as strong as his companion, and
the latter always seizes the heaviest ax, the biggest posts,
unquestioningly taking the brunt of the work. . . . He

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THE LONE WINTER

has inspiration, perhaps, in his father, who is a marvel-
ous worker. He has one and a half arms and a hook,
and does everything on his farm, even milking and plow-
ing. (There is a legend that he grasps two sections of
the cow’s bag at once, in his one hand.) But it needs
about eight hands and ten feet to plow and drive at the
gamp time — even with quiet horses ; I have tried it ! And
the one-armed man’s team are awful beasts — always
starting and jumping just when you don’t want them to,
and you spend all your vitality howling “Whoa — back!”
We borrowed them once to disk-harrow a piece of plowed
ground, and they took the turns at a gallop! That har-
row went around at an angle of ninety degrees — its vicious
knives in the air— my Babs on the iron seat, pulling and
yelling for dear life; while I stood helpless at one edge
of the piece. . . .

* * *

"“April ii.

Whirling days, these! and the farmer’s paradise, con-
sisting of three individuals at work on the land at once,
going on. It is an active paradise ; Polly and I trot busily
around. My boys are farm boys, and experienced, but
they ..cannot tell offhand at what .spot one wishes the
woven wire to begin, or just where, to the pony-cognizant
eye, the stone wall becomes intact enough to warrant only
a strand of barbs above it. Neither do they know our
wise ways through the woods, where, by the sacrifice of
a sapling or two, a team can be insinuated into the heart
of apparent wilds. Our straight-grained ash-trees vouch-
safed us a host of fine posts. "Never see anything split
better!” remarked one of the boys; but of course they

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THE LONE WINTER

were green and heavy, and those ramping black horses,
ever too spirited for their job, had melodrama indeed
“drawing them out/’ crashing over falling logs, swamping
in bogs, twisting violently round trees, straining up rocky
heights. The woods resounded with yells.

Fences have to go in most improbable places over these
heroic hills; again one marvels at the forefathers and
their walls. Up the sheerest slopes, through the forests,
the gray lines go steadily climbing. Or did the builders
roll the stones downhill? Someway one thinks of a wall
as going up — just as one draws a profile looking to the
left, and would n’t know how to do it the other way. . . .
It seems impossible to conceive of a wall running, with
any willingness, downhill. ... In fact, the stones would
get away from you. No, walls must have been built up-
hill!

I wish I were a forefather, and could get along with
a wall. Wire is terribly dear. Most of the world’s sup-
ply is heaped up in No-Man’s-Land. . . . The fore-
fathers, to be sure, did not raise luxuries like ponies, but
one would think their sheep, with which these slopes were
dotted, would have been over the hills and far away.
Our sheep were. Walls were as nothing. They even
stuck their feet into the meshes of woven wire and went
tumbling over, to regale themselves on the neighbors’
crops. We seem to have a way of acquiring talented
animals, imbued with the spirit of Bunker Hill ; it might
be well, I suppose, to develop a line of duffers who would
know no more than to stay where they were put. . . .
But they would n’t be half so entertaining.

Late to-day, through the woods of the high knoll, Polly
and I caught a gorgeous glimpse of mountains and illumi-

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nated forests. Across Doone Valley lay the side of Bis-
cuit Knoll, dark purple under the westering sun. Hun-
dreds of giant maples, perfect oval in shape, dot that long-
lying side, and each of them bore a luminous gold halo,
with a dark streak down the middle. . . . What did they
make one think of ? ... It was as if some one had lifted
the rose of memory to my nostrils. . . . Some charm,
some deep happiness far back in my life. ... Ha 1 Coins,
spun under lamplight! Not shillings, their color is too
cold; but the big, shining, English pennies with, as they
spin, the same blurry luminous gold edge, the same sha-
dowy streak down the middle. . . . We always spun them
by lamplight, they were prettier so ; and now, before me
on the dark hillside, there they were — those very pennies
—spinning hugely, wonderfully, under that lamp of the
west. One quite expected to see one or another of them
totter, darken, and fall. But they didn’t; and into the
heart of my childhood I hungrily stared. What purity of
pleasure ! What a miracle to step back into it again !

Turning away, refreshed to the very soul of me, I
blessed those giant maples. Never again might I catch
them so — at this spray-like moment of their foliage, this
exact hour and mistiness of day. Biscuit Knoll submerged
in purple. From the shallow pond on the pasture top, as
if to join one’s rejoicing, came a sudden burst of froggy
voices, singly at first, then thickening to a real celebration :
“Pete . . . Gert . . . Peter, Gertie . . . Pete, Gert—
Peter-Gertie-Peter-Peter-Gertie!” faster and faster, till
the air was* ringing with it. These were the first of the
high-knoll frogs that had sung to us; and it was unbe-
lievably sweet. . . . O April, April! a quickener of the
heart art thou!

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April 12.

A visit — one of many — from my little neighbor and a
friend. They accompanied me to the pasture to inspect
the fence, darting hither and thither to pick wild flowers,
on the way. As she added a red trillium to her bunch,
Lucile said, in an aggrieved tone, “Such a lot of these
stinkin’-Benjamins, this year!”

“Of what ? 33 I asked, horrified.

“Stinkin’-Ben j amins — these!” she repeated, showing
her handful. “Had a teacher once, his name was Mr.
Blossom, so the boys called him Stinkin’ Benjamin,” she
added, in her matter-of-fact voice.

“Remark the ‘so* !” I thought. Aloud I said : “Is n’t
it funny, what awful names all the poor little spring
flowers seem to have? Adder’ s-tongue — that’s not
pretty ; Dutchman’s-breeches — that is n’t either ; or blood-
root — a dreadful word, really; and now Stinking-Ben-
jamin! ... I never heard trillium called that before,
Lucile.”

“You didn’t?” said Lucile incredulously; and we all
bent to crawl under the new fence. The children con-
tinued to gather large, compact wads of bloodroot, while
I conversed with the boys; and on our way back across
the fields Lucile, still in matter-of-fact fashion, held out
her bunch to me.

“Take it, if you want it,” she said composedly; “I
don’t !” so I inclosed the compressed blossoms with mine ;
at which they spread out gratefully. Whenever Lucile
gives me something, — which is every time she comes, — it
is always with this shielding air of utter indifference; but
I know the warm little heart under the air,

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That evening, under the candle-light, the bloodroot ab-
solutely shone. I had picked out all the trillium. For
some time I fear I shall only see it, besmeared with that
fearful name !

Early this morning, loud spring-songs from the heart
of a glad boy, coming merrily over the hill to his fence-
mending, competed with the chorus of still gladder birds.
Yesterday, to my astonishment, there was no boy, and
hours of precious April were wasted. At one o’clock he
appeared, cheerfully remarking that he had “been paintin’
his flivver.” ... 0 temporal We have no flivver; the
fence boy, laboring by the day, has. So be it! A few
things we have, which are more than flivvers. . . .

Breakfast on the porch, for one. It is a pearl of an
April morning, misty and mild, with watery sunshine on
the far hills. Breakfast-tray in my hands, I hesitated
an instant on the dining-room threshold, then went for the
wicker table. A faint chill was in the air ; meditating on
the supposed treachery of spring, I took an ulster out
with me — but wrapped it round the coffee-pot instead. I
would not so insult the dulcet day. It was gentle as June ;
the valley was gentle, the woods soft and mild. There
were gray-blues, gray-browns, grayish pinks ; a faint yel-
lowing on the trees, a pale emerald in the valley, the white
glint of a stream; over all, a pearliness. There seemed
a pearliness of sound, too; a hush of April murmuring.
Spiritual significances stole from it — from the soft air, the
push of unseen life. Softer and more silent it grew. . . .
Then a breath of song came from the far woodlands,
swelled sweetly on one slope of the valley, then subsided,

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while the other slope murmured back — the shadow of a
bird chorus, far, far away. It faintly surged and fell;
surged and fell. . . .

Then suddenly my orchard awoke. Every tree had its
bird! Some of them had several. A grosbeak was near
by, with his rose-color and black velvet, his velvet voice.
Three bluebirds flew into the terrace cedar ; the air flashed
with them. Two of them soon flitted away ; the third, and
bluest, betook himself into Alpha, which he at once fur-
nished with azure. Blue as a blue gentian, he was ! and
his shirt-front a faded rose. Song-sparrows trilled just
where they were in the bushes, opening their beaks tre-
mendously. Four merry chickadees revolved in the
syringa; a bright “Pho e-bee!” smote downward from the
porch roof, and in the pear-tree somebody was “Slee-py !
slee-py l” over and over again. I prayed that Boo-boo was
in the house. He was. Mostly he disregards birds ; but
sometimes they regard him. . . .

On a limb of the big greening, just below the terrace
wall, a woodpecker was busy. He was pecking and ham-
mering with the greatest zest, making approving little
sounds to himself. For a second the black and white head
would be still, as if resting ; then the carving would begin
again. He stayed so long on that one spot that I began
to wonder. He must have found a harvest of grubs!
Soon his mate arrived, lighting on a limb close by. They
greeted each other with loud, robin-like chirps, then con-
versed in more confidential tones. Presently, as he flew
from the hole, she slid over him (it looked as if she slid
down the stripes on his back!) and settled upon the cav-
ity’s rim, beginning to carve and hammer away with equal
energy. . . . Grubs for two? Talking to herself, she

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worked and worked; chips fell rapidly downward — and it
dawned upon me. Their nest!

Silly woodpeckers ! when the old orchard abounded with
ready-made knot-holes! But if they wanted to hew out
a house in that limb they should. It was very dead, bark-
less, and conspicuous, and this year was to have been
sawed off; but it should be spared. Last year a chippie
raised a successful brood in the terrace cedar that over-
hangs our outdoor table, invariably feeding the wide-open
beaks at meal-time. As surely as we sat there, would come
a little form flying into Omega, low over our heads ; on
a branch the worm would be arranged in a nice bouquet
to suit baby throats ; then the mother slipped into the cedar
foliage, emerged, and bent over her nest. A beakful was
a serious meal ; it was several moments before she ceased
bending and came out again, giving herself a little shake,
remarking “Chip!” and flying swiftly away into the or-
chard. We felt acute gratitude. That one mother’s labors
enabled untold apples to ripen unblemished in the autumn.
. * . But it was very breathless, eating under her nest!
A tiger-lily, too, bloomed by that cedar, and its blossoms
were the goal of an impetuous humming-bird who daily
swooped down, hummed, scintillated, shot green fire, rifled
his lily, and departed — leaving us to breathe again.

* * *

April 15.

On my duteous way, to-day, through that pasture where
duty vanishes and becomes joy, I passed whole villages of
bloodroot nestling in slim hollows and presided over by
shoots of sumac; narrow, spiry little towns, exactly like
New England villages — with sumacs for elms. It being

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late afternoon, the blossoms were closed, looking like small
tulip buds, the backs of the petals faintly pink. With its
shining whiteness, its golden heart open to the sun, a
bloodroot is a glorious sight ; closed, and with its sympa-
thetic foliage (also pink-veined) furled about the stalk,
it is even lovelier. There is a vague maritime suggestion
about it ; the stem is mast-colored and straight ; and some-
thing about the furled foliage, the white folding of bloom
above, hints at tops’ls gathered for the night. . . .

Farther on there is a hollow in the woods through which
(still led by stem duty) I had to go. It is a bowl of
early flowers. Over the tops of tall hemlocks the sun
pours in ; the air of the slope is pearl-gray with the stems
of young maples. Winds sway roughly high in their tall
tops, but never a petal stirs on my flowers. A spot to
dream of — and grow rhododendrons in ! and as I approach
it I always think of the first line of “Maud,” and am glad
it is not “a dreadful hollow” and that I don't “hate” it.
(Though how approbation flattens things! It is far more
literary — to hate!) To-day I marveled at the thick
growth of “spring beauties” fluffing over the ground —
cerise-veined blossoms in a whirl of delicate sea-green
foliage; and at the sheets of bloodroot, broken here and
there by the yellow spike of a chance adder's-tongue —
their paradise is farther along in the woods, where they
bloom in acres. Then suddenly I saw a blue butterfly
fluttering ! Bluebird-blue, and daintily small, — though not
as tiny as those swarms of little blue ones we have in
summer, — he settled on the very rosiest of the spring
beauties. Even a butterfly's weight seemed considerable
for the hair-like stem; the little blossom trembled and
sagged. A blue butterfly on a pink-veined flower! As

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THE LONE WINTER

he closed his wings, a flash of hot blue went through them
— like a driftwood flame ; then instantly they cooled into
pearl-gray, rimmed with tiny patterns of dark-blue. A
triumphal shape, those wings — curved, reared, like taut
sloop-sails in a stiff breeze ; and as he sat there, meditat-
ing, he ground them softly together. Then he began to
fiddle, stiffly, with fore legs and antennae, among the sta-
mens of the flower; but as I bent nearer, fancying him
absorbed, he fluttered away (right under my nose!), com-
ing blunderingly down again on a neighboring blossom.
The lusterless sapphire of his bulbous eyes had perception
behind it; though those eyes don't look as if they could see
anything.

Stiff times, for an April butterfly ! The sun had gone
in, and a chill crept through the woods. I thought he
would never find his spot in that flower. He groped, and
groped, and fingered ; then, with all the vehemence of con-
viction, and while the spring beauty wabbled on its stem,
he punched at petals, or barely within their narrow cup;
finally, with a lurch forward like a sinking ship, pre-
cipitating himself into the pale-green of the honey he
sought. Even then his fiddling was numb; those fum-
bling antennae needed warming. Strangely enough, noth-
ing is clumsier than a cold butterfly. Rising with diffi-
culty, he flitted languidly from one small cup to another,
avoiding the more obvious invitation of the bloodroot and
settling always where he was loveliest — on lavender, or
rosy-pink. Goliath and I stalked him excitedly — over
rocks, around trees, down the steep drop of the hillside.
Goliath thought it was a bear, at least, that was causing
such stealth in his mistress’s gait ; lifting each foot high,
and as silent as a dog could be in the dead leaves, he stole

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after me, holding his breath. ... I could tell, because
now and then he let it go in a tense puff. . . .

Down the hill, over a mossy log — I thought we had
lost him; but bending far down across the log, with a
backward gesture to a thrilled dog, I sought faithfully
in the gray-browns of the hollow where he had dropped.
Ha! on a twig bearing three dead leaves, he sat, gently
grinding his wings as before. Near-invisible, he was,
against the bleached gray and browns of the leaves ; my
April butterfly! and just as I leaned affectionately closer,
trying to fancy what in the world the grinding was for
— poof ! the observant sapphires would have none of me.
This time he fluttered quite rapidly away, a dwindling
woodland jewel; and through the meshes of our abom-
inable new wire! So the collie and I, obliged to gallop
round by a barway, lost him.

" Where is he, Gli ?” I wailed ; whereat Goliath, dashing
helpfully to the stone wall, peered into a crack of it with
a profound expression. . . .

After that, we were quite lukewarm about wire. We
inspected, languorously; we shook a new barway, and
found it solid; we acquired a bunch of spring beauties
for the dining-room table, then made our homeward way
across the high slopes of the pasture. Buds on the sweet-
brier ; an inch of real grass in the more extravagant hol-
lows ; violet leaves starting — oh ! a lavish diet for ponies.
As soon as wire is strung — can it be I shall heave hay
no more? For it is only in striding over provender like
this that a slight impatience comes. Why heave? Why
trickle hay-seed within the receptive collar — when a pas-
ture table is spread ?

Once in the barn-yard, however, rebellion sinks. Hay
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it is and ever will be, cries that dusty or muddy spot; and
I pick my way across it with little but patience and pitch-
forks in my soul. In the west, gray and violet clouds,
with apricot edges, let through a beam of sun. It hit a
far hill, turning it a watery yellow-pink. Other hills
were dull blue, or storm gray ; among them this lone pink
bit shone. To the south a dull growl sounded, where
muffled, whitish heads loomed: an April thunder-storm!
to match my April butterfly. The watery pink leaped
across more hills and vanished; louder and louder grew
the growls ; and the collie and I raced to throw open the
bam doors. Superb and her children voluntarily waded
across the paddock swamp, — it was odd to see their legs
sink into bright green and come out inky black! — while
the horses and yard ponies fairly poured in on top of each
other. They know what thunder means. And, as Goliath
and I dashed for the house, white sheets of rain were
sweeping up the valley, and the long roar of it marching
across the woods.

Except for the occasional energy of such storms, this
has been an indolent and languorous April. “A month
ahead of time — why hurry?” she seems to say. Even the
grass-blades are deliberate; if they hurry, it is at night
when no one sees. April has had a teasing hand over
them. One day she says “Grow, now!” and lets a hot
sun down on them; the next, she claps a frost on their
exertions. That, so far, has been her form of whimsy,
not those “tears and smiles” with which she is forever
taxed. She has simply stood over the thermometer and
hauled it up and down — a new toy, for a silly April !

Even this thunder-storm trailed but the tip of an irra-
tional wing over us ; growlings and rain were all we had,

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THE LONE WINTER

when any other April would have banged us heartily. This
one seems not to know what she wants — and is lazy
about it besides!

* * *

April 1 7.

Sunday, and raining hard. I have written a thousand
words, stared a song-sparrow out of countenance, read
half a book I did n’t like, been nearly hit in the head by
Kim’s fore legs, eaten entirely too much dinner, and
watched the leaves on the cinnamon rose-bushes grow.
Yesterday morning there were no leaves; to-day they are
pickable. Boo-boo has spent the day passionately sleeping,
holding his nose on with his paw. The curl of that orange
paw fills me with joy. Just now he is sleeping on one ear,
his head upside down, one long, white whisker pointing
heavenward.

This morning, when it began to pour, he sat on the sill
of the open door a moment ; “Pr-oo i” said he conclusively
— and made for his chair again. When I built a fire be-
side him, he fairly cheered me on, sitting up on purpose,
tossing his nose approvingly in the midst of tremendous
yawns ; then he reached up and clawed my sweater grate-
fully. “Pr-ow!” he murmured; then detached himself
and curled down. . . . Who says cats are not weather-
prophets ? And so I have had an orange ball near me to
light up the gray day. My pot of daffodils! If Boo
had n’t been yellow, — I picked him out because he was, —
what pleasure one would have missed. One does n’t want
a cold-colored cat in this climate.

My song-sparrow was on the terrace, in the rain, obvi-
ously killing time. I never saw a bird do that before.

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Four times he carefully picked up a straw — and laid it
down! Finally, he abandoned it for a wet oat. He had
a dreadful time husking that oat, because it was wet. Just
as he finished, and hopped under a bush, a drop fell on
him ; he shook his tail violently. Then he made prolonged
advances to another straw. Just as I was murmuring,

“Oh, the darling, he ’s building his n ” he dropped it

and began looking about him, senselessly chirping. . . .
Over one shoulder, over the other shoulder, hop hop hop ;
up into the rain, down at his toes, hop hop hop; up again,
when, seeing me, he bent over and took a long and earnest
run into the bushes — the only earnest thing he had done.

As for Kim, that angel of the winter-time, he now
comes out of his stable in the pose of the British unicorn.
He has no spike in his forehead, — I am glad he has n’t, —
but he has hoofs and fore legs, and is fond of flourishing
them. He makes a beautiful figure, dancing along on
two legs, his neck strongly curved, nostrils distended, and
green fire shooting from his eyes, but his gestures are
unexpected. This morning, en route to the watering-
trough, one of them nearly got me “in the brainpan,” as
Howard Pyle’s knights would say. “Devil !” I muttered,
as he drank at the trough, his ears winking back and
forth; “You would, would you?” and when he backed
away, rolling a wicked eye, I whirled a rope-end before
his nose all the way back to the barn. That occupied his
mind.

After this, if he goes only one step from his box, it
will be with bit and bridle. I am sorry. Kim and I have
been so confidential all winter, and now I shall have to
wave things in his face and roar at him, and by degrees
the sweet expression he has gained from months of pet-

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ting will go, and the eye of wrath take its place. He had
an awful eye last autumn. If it was n't fierce it was sar-
castic ; and at twilight, when I approached him in the field
and he stood at the end of his rope, eying me with that
bright, ironic look, I felt like running away. You cannot
look Kim out of countenance. He looks you! And a
sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than
rage.

* * *

April 18.

My neighbors are very good about my various sections
of fence that adjoin their various pastures. Seven neigh-
bors! And not a battle yet with any of them. Every
year I have a visit from one or another of them ; about
dusk, of a spring evening, he knocks at one of my doors
— the house, perplexingly, has five — and remarks, cheer-
fully, that it 's a fine evenin'. I assent. How well I know
what he has come to say !

“I 'd like — I wanted to know what you was goin' to
have done to that brush fence, ma'am. Goin' to turn out
m' young cattle, ef I kin, next week — and them old posts
air pretty much rotted oil. Now, ef there was some good
posts and a strand or two o' barbed wire” — etc., etc.
Amiably we discuss the technicalities of fence construc-
tion, and part on excellent terms ; and I watch his tired
walk toiling back across the fields. I have an immense
fellow-feeling for these hard-worked men. They are so
weary, and yet so kind. Very often they offer to do the
work themselves if I supply the material. Money is
scarce; but capacity for toil is always theirs. “Henry”
and “John” labored days for me, on our respective sec-
tions, right in “spring's works,” too. And they were jolly

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about it! They joked as they set the heavy posts; and I
wish some Union boss could have seen those two men
buckling at their work; it would have disturbed him
greatly. I rode down late one afternoon in the edge of
a thunder-storm that was muttering nearer and nearer
over the hills, and found them still at their job. Henry,
with mighty blows, was setting up a post, while John ham-
mered in staples over woven wire. Great drops of rain
were falling, but when I commented, “What a lot you Ve
done to-day !” John, smiling, merely murmured, “We’ve
been busy — some !” and leaped nimbly for another post.

That is their tone — a sort of careless ardor. The art
that conceals art. . . . It is an art to put up forty rods of
good wire fence in a day — adjusting it to the chins and
chest of varied beasts, and making a jest of it meanwhile!
And then go home and milk and feed fourteen cows . . .
and horses . . . separate milk, tend pigs and calves, chop
wood, carry it in, and by and by — quite as an after-
thought — have your own supper. And be decent to your
family meanwhile ! . . .

* * *

April 19.

Two mornings ago I woke to a despairing sight : wood-
lands white with fleecy snow, and the emerald of the fields
glimmering through a wintry covering. They looked like
pale-green silk under muslin — the evening frock of years
ago. . . . But it was all wrong. The world was turned
inside out ; things that should have been dark were light—
and vice versa. Even every twig was fluffy with snow;
the terrace syringa one round mop of it.

“It’s not beautiful!” I murmured obstinately; “it’s
notr

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But it was. There were tints seen through tints, warm
color against cool white, all the things that had charmed
me months ago. But — one did not want any more cool
white! Yesterday had been summer, and now a shrewd
east wind was blowing, the wettest of wet snows steadily
falling. The horses stayed in the stable and I over the
fire, all of us rebelling ; and when toward night a warmer
wind blew I could have shouted with delight. The snow
was visibly fading away.

The next day was one cold soak of rain, but hills were
very green, the plowed patches more chocolate than ever,
and so there was hope ; and when I was roused this morn-
ing by a woodpecker on my window-sill and a sunbeam
in my eye it seemed the happiest of worlds. The sky
was die softest blue — a bit teary yet from the storm ; soft
white clouds with purplish shadows floated in it. A
million birds were singing. A warm breath met me as
I flung open the porch door; the air was blue with blue-
birds,, thick with flutterings and song. Fragrances jumped
at one; color dazzled. I made three leaps and got the
kitchen fire going, tore out to the bam and fed everybody,
dashed back again and tossed a breakfast upon the wicker
table, for:

The — ponies — were — going — out ! ! !

In a distant world of cities, it might be Patriot's day,
or some such vague thing; here — it was Pasture day, a
real and riotous fact. To celebrate it, we ran no set and
labored Marathons; we simply — ran! We flew and we
raced, we made designs of ourselves on the hillsides, and
Greek friezes on the tops of knolls ; we milled in gallop-
ing circles, or dived down cliffs in a streaming, line ; we
were Valkyr-horses against the sky — we were pastel

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studies, and water-colors, and incentive for endless
sculpture !

All because wire was up! Except for one short
stretch; near enough, surely, for a celebration. (But how
I did hope they would n't see that bit in the woods. . . . )

For a week I had had a harassing time with them. The
barn-yard, after a spell of decency, was newly muddy,
and they hated it. So did I. They could see Superb
and her gang outside, wandering whither they would ; so
they broke down my fence, and Henry's fence, and the
fence of two combined and wrathful boys, escaping so
persistently into the mowing — where they made a bee-line
for our precious new-seed piece, young and tender and
tearable-up by the roots — that I had to shut them in the
sheds, where they mourned and moped.

“Worse off than in winter-time!" they told me accus-
ingly; I knew they were, and it hurt. Sinking in the
mud, carrying loads of hay through that morass of a
barn-yard, was physically painful enough; but having to
say harsh words to a crowd of wistfully emerging ponies,
and then to close the door firmly again in their innocent,
woeful faces — that was almost more than one could
bear. . . . / had been where the turf was springing, the
bloodroot blossoming, and adder's-tongue carpeting the
woods ; I knew how it felt to want just that, and want it
more than anything else. . . .

So this morning I made up my mind. Abandoning the
literary arts, I ran around making things as tight as pos-
sible, putting up new bars, assisting weak spots in the
old wire of the lane, weaving in fresh saplings wherever
saplings might help. Then, pretending to pick my way
soberly through the mud, — but in reality treading on

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rainbows ! — I ^arrived at the sheds and unbuttoned the
doors. Ponies stepped out — slowly, without expectation,
thinking they were just going to be watered and put back.
They dawdled over the sill, pulling their legs limply across.
A few started directly toward the trough, but Carrick
Dare, from mere habit, glanced back at the barway. . . .
Like a shot, he swung round ; the rest swung with him ;
and I smiled to see the change in their expressions. Slack
ears shot forward, a gleam came into their eyes — and
in one sudden mob they poured, jostling and kicking,
out the lane, nabbing green bites as they ran, but mostly
frolicking straight outward, and up the brown knoll. . . .

0 Liberty, more desirable art thou than food! ... A
happy mist in my eyes, I watched them. . . .

Then I jumped into Polly's saddle. She had had a
thrilling week of pony-chasing and now bolted out the
lane, thinking she had to bring back that whole galloping
mob; but there was no haste; I just thought it well to
follow along and see what they did; also to inspect one
or two spots in the fence. Cressy-cow, with a very
superior expression, was by a sweetbrier bush not far
away, grazing leisurely; she had been in pasture since
early morning — she had ! . . .

“Old story now, is it, Cressy?” I inquired.

She stared at us, and blew a breath or two ; but, when

1 passed she started after. A chance for a walk with
Missis ! and she broke into a laborious cow-trot to catch
up. “Coming with us?” I asked, holding Polly in; a
coltish gambol was her reply. So round by the fence and
over the hill she followed, sometimes frolicking ahead
down a slope, sometimes lingering to tear off the top of a
sprouting weed, but keeping up a genial average of com-

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THE LONE WINTER

panionship. Of course we conversed as we went. Cressy
simply drinks in conversation ; I think that is why she is
so keen to go on walks.

“Fissin’ her feet all lovely, old dear, so she won’t ’tep on
a ’tone?” I inquire, as she paces downhill beside us,
picking her way in the rough path ; and Cressy, nodding
consciously along, seems to assent with every step. Baby-
talk makes her simply glow with contentment!

At a corner of the wall she stopped. Grass was long
there, and — though she did n’t want to admit it — she was
a bit winded, keeping up with Polly’s restless pace. So
up the steeps we mountaineered, staring sadly at stumps
of great trees recently slain, just beyond our line — we
shall miss them against that northern valley; up by an
old butternut that the wind had lately broken off, till the
top of the High Knoll was reached. There our own
fence began again. Downhill now, on the other side;
before us an enormous, bumpy world, soft with spring
color, shining with bright streams.

We plunged into a copse, where Polly twisted and
ducked and said, “I don’t want to go in here !” But there
was an uninspected boundary at the bottom, so down we
went, plowing deep into brown leaves and leaf loam,
blundering over roots, finally arriving at the back line —
also at a most squashed specimen of fence. This neigh-
bor had lumbered right over it ! Polly and I cocked our
respective heads suspiciously, Polly being unwilling to
proceed into those branches, I to mend fence some one
else had smashed.

“If he busted it, Pip,” I argued, “has n't he got to
fix it?”

We scrabbled on. At the top, I dismounted and re-
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saddled, such had been the slant we had climbed. Once
more mountains confronted us — also, more trees over
the wire. White birches this time — poor, pretty
things! . . . “Yes, Pip/’ I said firmly, “he has got to
fix it !” Light of heart, — it is so much easier for men to
do these things, than for me! — we minced along, down
a wood-road the other side of the knoll. It is much over-
grown, and brush drizzled thickly past one’s "stirrups.
Turning into the clear woods to avoid this, we scared
up another butterfly — and I pulled my horse in. . . . But
it was not blue; it had no Valkyr tilt to its wings; and
while it was a good, leisurely, brown butterfly with cream*
colored edges, and looked charming in the bare, sun-lit
gray of the woods, we let it flutter by us and did not
stalk it. I had had my April butterfly. This one was
the distressingly tame kind that gets into the mayonnaise
when we have salad on the terrace.

In the wood-road again, I stopped Polly so short she
ran backward. . . . Leaves! Round the middle of a
maple sapling! a tiny whorl of them — but actual tree-
leaves. The first ... I think I was never so moved by
sight of a leaf. All winter one had waited for just
this moment — for all that the coming of spring — and
summer — meant ; my child at home. . . . But why should
this abnormal sapling have its leaves first ? In this forest
of grays and browns? Other saplings, both middle and
top, were bare ; but here was this independent young thing
with a belt of twinkling yellow-green that shone like
jewels in the leafless woods.

Passing a lovely little rock-garden, the wood-road
swerved out upon a terrace of the pasture where a low,
black- and rose-colored cliff interrupts the steady climb of

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the turf. The cliff's foot was trimmed with a snowy edge
of bloodroot. In one rocky cove the blossoms looked like
surf thrown up by the green tide — a flood of it, bursting
on the dark rock. Along the edge of the woods, too, were
not only small villages but sheets and borders of it,
miraculously shining in the sun, and so to Polly's disgust,
I stopped again. She not only dislikes halts ; she had her
old eye fixed on the barn-yard far below, and yearned
to be there. . . . But that bloodroot! Even Gli looks
now when I cry, “Oh, see the flowers !” He does n’t know
what to look at, but he looks; and his mere, chivalrous
attention is consoling. For Polly has no time for such
dalliance. “Continuez toujours, mes enfants!” She has
no patience with sunsets ; she even walks so fast in the
woods that one can hardly see anything; so, with vexed,
backward looks at the splashing white and gold, I let her
continuer long before I was ready. . . . (Combat breaks
fatally into one’s sense of beauty ; I have learned to dis-
mount if I want to see anything!).

We swung into a wood trail again. A certain “hunch”
about Ocean Wave’s whereabouts was stealing down my
spine. I had not glimpsed a pony since they first rushed
out of sight ; could it be that Ocean so soon had led them
away to her old haunt? I loosed Polly’s rein and let
her go. Crossing a stream just where it dived into
hemlocks, we came to the Cave of the Winds — a hollow
evergreen chamber, with the path winding through, and
leading out into a sumac grove fronting mountains.
Under the hot April sun, wild strawberries were in
blossom. Traversing the dead-looking grove, whose
sticky, fuzzy antlers rudely protruded at us, we saw a
bright-green corner of my neighbor’s pasture, then a

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group of old apple-trees; and under them — what alto-
gether cursed colors? yellow and brown and white and
black — yes, Ocean and her slaves, already devouring my
neighbor’s substance !

It did seem as if they might have waited — overnight!
And we rode wrathfully down the steep. It was like
going down a chimney! My saddle was on Polly’s
neck. . . . There may have been flowers, but we did not
see them, having a baleful eye on legs instead. The gleam
of the chase leaped into Polly’s eye. . . . Grimly I
slammed down the poplar bars, went sucking through a
swamp and out upon sward again, Polly gathering under
me like springs. . . . Cooing, we surrounded them ; howl-
ing, we pursued; they fled and dodged, but Pip was
faster at it, and, at last, through the bar-way hopped the
last tail. Breathless, I hurled in the bars, mounted, and
was after them, Pip leaping brooks and bushes like a
maniac; then, urging and shouting, up the long climb
through the woods, around divers corners, and out into
safe pasture again. From there it was a home stretch,
follow the fence, and simply — keep ’em going! We did;
galloped across the flat and into the yard, where I jumped
off and shot the whole gang, puffing and blowing, behind
shed doors.

Then I buttoned them in. Despairing noses stuck up
over the half-door; a pang tore me, but I left them. . . .
One more night ; then that fence would be done !

Donlinna, Pud, Elizabeth, and Queen were not among
these sinners; and, strolling out after tea, I was exulting
in the thought that they, at least, were virtuous, and out
in the fragrance and the lovely soft air, when a casual
boy emerged from the dusk of the field.

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“I see some of your little ponies up thar in th* mowing 1”
he remarked cheerfully.

“In my mowing?” I repeated.

“Yes ’m. Up thar by th’ woods. Four-five of ’em!”

Ye gods ! that one bit left undefended in the comer of
the woods — they ’d found it ! I thanked the boy. “Come,
Gli !” I said, in level tones. Gli waggled his tail doubt-
fully. He does n't care to accompany wrath. “Come on,
darling !” I coaxed ; and he gamboled gladly by my side,
apologizing and explaining. . . . And I had thought my
voice so judicial! Gli knows me better than I know
myself.

Well after sunset — but clear light still lay on fields
and woods. We started hurriedly, but soon slowed down.
What hurry was there? (Though I always feel like
rushing when ponies are out!) We had all night to get
them in. They were in a nice safe corner and always ran
down beautifully from there. It seems to amuse them.
Besides, it was too beautiful, too holy, for hurry; my
spirit calmed as we walked. The very turf of the road
was serene. On every side rose the soft, mysterious
sounds of evening. Rounding a sudden knoll, — one of
those glacial efforts with which my farm abounds, — I
could see shapes against the dusky purple of the high
woods. Poor dears ! How should they know that mow-
ing is not pasture — that they were eating up next winter’s
food?

Climbing the hill, I felt more indulgent at every step.
Behind the brown western woods the sky was stained a
soft red ; the tree-tops brushed beautifully into it. I saw
wide dusky valleys, the old house in its orchards, the
purple hills, and above — the moon! A mellow moon,

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nearly full. Bless the ponies, for taking one up there!
This was one of the finest spots on the farm for a moon-
rise, — backed by woods, so that all the world lay to the
east. Water gleamed in the valleys; color was still soft
and clear. The moon apparently had no connection with
anything, shed no light, did nothing but adorn, hanging in
the empty sky a mere, lovely portrait of a moon.

Suddenly a thrush sang behind me in the silent woods.
The first thrush — and in April! He sang again divinely;
from the deep woods came his mate’s arpeggio. Oh, the
lovely things! Those few, thrilling contralto notes — the
very spirit of dusk, of the deep woods. “Doo — doodle-
oodle-oo!” . , . And the deep red behind the trees. It
all went together. Very thin, on a whiffle of breeze from
a distance, came a peeping of frogs; and I frowned in-
voluntarily. “Don’t! Please listen!” And the thrush
spoke again. . . .

After that, even the silence was rich with beauty.
Something soft touched my hand; Donlinna had stolen
up behind me and was stretching a timid nose for love.
I put my arm about her neck and laid my cheek on it.
It was satin-smooth, and soft and warm. “Did you know
I was lonely, Donny?” I whispered. She pointed her
nose delicately downward, slowly sniffing every inch of
me, to my boot-toes. These she slightly licked; while I
stood very still, looking down upon the top of that sweet
wild head, with its tossed chestnut foretop. Then she
lifted it, staring musingly across the valley. Horses feel
beauty; she was strangely quiet. “You dear!” I mur-
mured, stroking the soft silvery-gold of her nostrils. . . .

But then the Maharajah came jealously up, wondering
a little ; and important Elizabeth, with the moon’s light on

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her wool and ink-black shadows under all her curves ; last,
Queen, tagging wherever Elizabeth led. . . . Behind the
trees the red was dying, but the thrushes sang on. Dusk
deepened. I took the Maharajah by his reasonable
halter: “Come, children!” They followed — all except
Donlinna, who lingered, did an abrupt gambol, posed a
minute against the sky, then, to my horror, dashed
dramatically down the very steepest place with a noise
like an avalanche, scaring the two youngsters, carving up
hooffuls of soft sod, and crashing insanely ahead of us
down the lane. ... It was as well I had not tried to lead
her. Her thunderings had made even the dignified
Maharajah caper in my grasp ; but a word adjusted him.
I love the spontaneous young; but there is something
soothing about a well-broken animal. Will our Donny
ever be that ?

I could not shut them up under roofs ! I simply turned
them again into the barn-yard, closing the gate on their
indecisive tails. I fancied they would stay together and
stay in. . . . Later on, Goliath and I patrolled above the
maple-grove in the bright moonlight, and there they were,
in a cozy hollow, on nice, soft pies of everlasting — all four
of them fast asleep.

I should like to sleep on everlasting myself. It sounds
dry even when it isn't, and has a pleasant, dried smell.
It makes a thick pad on the ground. One approves of
it, dead and flat like this — far more than of the upright
summer sort that grows and grows where you don’t want
it. And it was a pretty silvery color in the moonlight.
Pud had the end of his nose resting on the ground — in
that afflicted attitude horses love ; and such a black blot
of shadow under his neck. Elizabeth was rolled in a

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ball, pearly white, with ink-black cracks; and Donny’s
gold and silver ankles shone, all curled together in a
bunch. The dears !

Gli, beside me, shifted his front feet and gave a patient

sigh. This undue scrutiny of sleeping beasts ? He

had digested them, long ago. ... So, herded by approv-
ing wags, I went slowly home. . . . That moonlight ! It
was almost too clear. I could have mended fence by
it. . . . And all the world was moon-blue.

For the last week the woodpecker's hole in the old
greening has been a scene of conflict. Early one sunny
morning I heard strange sounds — loud chirring and
whirring ; and there, hanging to the edge of his hole was
the big woodpecker, with two bluebirds trying to fight
him away! It was they that were doing the chirring
and whirring. First one would sweep down on him, a
flash of indignant blue, then the other, Mrs. Bird a
fainter blue than her mate, but*every bit as good a fighter.
At each flash the woodpecker nimbly ducked and chip-
pered faintly to himself, but still he hung to the edge
of his hole. ... It was his hole! I had watched him
carve it ; but somehow my illegal sympathies were all with
the invaders. ... As their attacks grew faster and more
venomous, he gave a desperate bob right round the limb
and came up onto another one. With shrieks of rage the
bluebirds redoubled their swoops, banging fiercely at him
at short range, so that as he ducked under the branch
from one blow another would meet him as he came up ;
till at last — and I had been amazed at his uncombative

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persistence — he cried unhappily, “Peenk!” and flew
swiftly downhill to his favorite line of wild cherry-trees.

Then the two bluebirds, with great cheepings and chat-
terings, assembled on a twig just outside the precious hole
and compared notes. Such tender wing-flutterings !
Such mutual confidences, and long, long stories to relate !
Every moment one of them would fly to the hole and
hang there, as if illustrating some point in a story, then
fly back, to be met with more wing-flutterings and con-
tralto solicitudes. All the time I was at the porch table
these colloquies continued; and when I went in the two
little victors were still sitting on their twig, their azure
backs in the sun. ... It was the watching-post for the
hole.

Next morning there was the same scene. This time
the woodpecker was in the bald top of the tree, clear of
branches, so that his assailants had him even more at
their mercy. A woodpecker is not a strategic fighter.
Dodge as nimbly as he would (and dodging seems to be
a woodpecker’s forte), grievous were the blows that fell
on him. Mr. Bluebird to-day was one incessant streak of
wrath, and he and Mrs. Bird flashed so fast that the dead
top of the tree seemed ablaze with color. . . . Lovely,
to have a nice bright-blue fight served regularly for break-
fast ! And yet it was a strange sight, in the peace of the
sunny morning, with buds and blossoms waving above
the quiet fields — and this hot battle going on in the
air. ... I was sorry for the woodpecker; he seemed so
genuinely astonished and dismayed, the shrieks of the
bluebirds so disproportionate. But when he did fly away
his departing “Peenk!” was angrier than before. This
thing was becoming serious! ... All day, at intervals,

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the combat was desperately renewed; the shrieks set in
worse than ever. The woodpecker, and sometimes his
mate with him, would fly up with quick, determined wing-
strokes, from the line of wild cherries below (it was
their greening tree, and their pet hole !) ; then louder than
ever were their unhappy notes and the cries of the little
invaders. . . .

Next day, after a long and exhausting bout, the wood-
peckers, with a departing duet of peenks, went off in a
straight flight to a distant wood. The two little bluebirds,
returning, lighted together on a slender twig, which
bounced up and down with their weight. It was funny
to see them stare at each other. And then they snuggled
amicably together. Soon, with solicitous gurgling and
conversation, Mrs. Bird left her lord; after first flut-
tering and hovering at the edge of the hole (while the
gentleman danced with excitement on his twig), she took
the momentous step. She slipped ini It hid her com-
pletely. I expected to see at least a tail-feather, but there
was nothing. She was gone. Her mate seemed beside
himself. He warbled ; he broke his warble short off and
began to Ghir and chipper; he flew a few inches here, a
few inches there, then came back to his twig and fairly
foamed at the mouth.

At last she came out, giving herself a little shake.
What had she been doing? He dashed to meet her,
escorting her to her favorite seat. There, for a long time,
they cooed and sang; enormous, as usual, was the tale
she had to tell. . . . Little darling things, with their
backs glowing blue in the sun, their rose-colored breasts
fluffing! it looked as if that hole in the bare limb would
rear bluebird babies, now. I hoped it would.

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THE LONE WINTER

To-day I am sure. Mrs. Bird has definitely disap-
peared. Husband’s blue back is on duty; face toward
the hole, he watchfully sits. Sliding about on the twig,
he murmurs to himself ; sometimes he bursts into irrepres-
sible song; often he is on the wing, bringing supplies to
his lady within. But if ever the flit-flit of a woodpecker,
even a glint of his checkered black and white, is seen, the
little blue songster becomes six birds; he shouts and
dashes, the tree is full of him ; and the poor woodpecker,
convinced that a bluebird army is occupying his once
home, gives a submissive cry and departs. One afternoon
I saw him on the tip of another dead limb not far away.
It was very dead, it had possibilities, and he was inspect-
ing it. But his interest soon died. It wasn’t his own
branch. For at least ten minutes he sat there, turning
a critical head, gazing at the view, now and then taking a
quick preen at one of his feathers; but almost, for a
woodpecker, doing nothing. Once he looked squarely
over at the old greening. For anything so sharp and tool-
like as a hairy woodpecker, he looked positively senti-
mental. Those shavings in the grass — already turning
gray. . . .

But I do miss my morning fight !

* * *

April 21.

Earliest spring is passing. I hate to see it go. Petals
are lying in white rings about the bloodroot plants, and
in our sunny little woods below the house, where was such
a garden of adder’s-tongues, the blossoms are curling up
their yellow points with a sort of hot, despairing vitality
— their last, valiant flourish before fading.

[3io]

THE LONE WINTER

The log cabin feeling has been very strong of late. I
have been housecleaning, while yearning to be outdoors.
Why have cupboards? I asked myself, as I plunged my
head in and out of their uninspiring depths ; or why things
that fill up cupboards? when all any sane being wants,
besides shelter and a fire, is enough of one sort of clothes
to wear? Preferably riding-clothes. And yet here are
layers of superfluities and frills, simply planned to ensnare
one at the sweetest time of year. . . .

More days, too, of rain and heavy cloud. I have lost
most of the moon, and almost lost my poplar-leaves — the
first, precious stage of them, when they are tiny and
twinkling and lemon-colored, and scented like lemon-peel.
I rode under a tree of them yesterday, however, and was
nearly knocked over by fragrance; so there will still be
some left at camp if Polly and I can get there this after-
noon. Perhaps a whitethroat will be indulgent, and sit
among them, singing.

Yesterday, in a soft rain, I picked my first violet. It
grew all alone on the edge of the high knoll, a violet that
liked a view. The view was mostly fog, but near color
was brilliant, and the gray vanishing of things poetic.
No ponies were in sight, but in an emerald hollow reposed
my Cressy, all alone, complaisant in the gentle rain as
only a cow — and I— can be. (I owe that — and it ’s no
inconsiderable boon— to an English bringing up.) She
was, as usual, chewing solemnly, and eying me with
benevolence. Out for a mere walk, I wandered about
gathering a flower here and there; Cressy lumbered to
her feet. My job looked congenial, to a cow. She
stretched one hind leg elaborately, and arranged her
tail in a circle on her spine — the last touch of geniality;

[3ii]

THE LONE WINTER

then she sauntered after me. I turned an unreceptive
back.

“No! I sha’n’t give you my flowers !” So she set a
long profile to the fog, and merely watched. The rain
grew steadier. I receded. “ ’By, Cressy !” Not a bit of
it! with her customary hop of pleasure, this parlor pet
capered after me, shaking the ground with her gambol-
ings. She gained my side, and, with a loud “Whoo !” of
contentment, fell into step. Her cowy breath, sweet and
milky, came up to me ; her head nodded ; in her eye was
satisfaction. Goliath, with his usual tact, accompanied
us on the other side of the fence, so as not to worry
Cressy. I once asked him to do that; and now he was
stealing along, sending sad, resigned glances at an unat-
tainable Missis. . . .

“Cressy,” I said, with a hand on the back of her warm
neck, “can’t I ever go up the knoll without bringing you
down? It ’ll make a lot of walking for you.”

But *she strode the more earnestly beside me, with
determined little pufifs. Down the mother-bank — the
slope where pony-mothers sun themselves — and into the
lane; then Cressy marched solemnly to the trough. She
hates to admit she is a “dry” cow, turned out, with no
human connection — I think Cressy esteems humans more
than her own kind ; so, after the ceremonial of the trough,
she directed her orderly steps to the barn and stood by
the rear door, gazing expectantly at me.

“Sentimental about your stable still?” I asked her,
smiling, but still she gazed.

“You ’re not going to be milked,” I argued, turning my
collar down— the rain had ceased— and starting to walk
away. “You know you ’re not !” I threw at her def en-

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sively over my shoulder. I hated to leave her staring so
wistfully, her front feet up on that stone step. I did n’t
want her to think I was deserting her, after she had
waddled all the way down with me in the rain. And
“Aw-aw!” murmured Cressy, gently, behind me.

That was too much. I wheeled. “Want to come in?”

“Mm-m!” she assented eagerly; and hoisted herself
through the narrow door, fairly bolting into her stanchion.

“Silly old goose!” I said, hitching her; “when you
might be outdoors!” But, doing her elephant-dance of
pleasure on the empty floor, she gazed at me with ineffable
eyes. Home, once more ! . . .

* * *

April 25.

The jibbety-bird has come ! I woke this morning with
a sunbeam on my pillow — and two or three worries, too;
my seed-oats had n’t come, the commercial “phosphate”
seemed mostly street-sweepings, when — jibbety- jibbety-
jibbety — jib!” came from a tree outside. I sat up, laugh-
ing, worries forgotten. “Bless you, jibbety-bird!” I
hadn’t heard him for a year; I have never really seen
him yet. He jibbeties round overhead at camp, and we
crane our necks, but in vain. But he is our most humor-
ous bird, and we adore him. He flits from tree to tree,
joking as he goes. “ Jibbety , jibbety — jib!” Who could
resist that?

Coming down-stairs and opening the door, a scent of
almonds wafted strongly to me. The hedge of plum-
bushes was out ! Overnight it had bloomed, for yesterday
I saw only the pinkish buds, with a hint of bronze foliage.
No cherry-blossom in Japan can be more beautiful than

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this straggling hedge round the old wall Stone is won-
derfully becoming to blossoms; and these pinkish things
can show themselves, too, against the sky, against vivid
green meadows, or a dark-blue mountain — it depends
where one stands to look. Bees are busy about them,
rejoicing — who wouldn't? — in plum-flavored honey.
Breakfast outdoors is a fiesta , now; one forgets to eat.
Just as I sat down to-day, however, tragedy intervened;
I rushed and saved my chipmunk. I had seen the sleek
little gray head peering above the corner of the wall; it
stayed there, chewing merrily, apparently unaware of my
presence. Then a yellow thing glided across the grass;
I leaped — so did the cat; there was a mad scuffling in
leaves and Boo-boo, fishing venomously in a chink of the
wall, brought out my poor little friend — upside down, all
his pretty white stomach showing, his shoulder and one
fore paw in the cat's mouth; his brown eye wide open,
piteous. ... I fell on Boo: “Drop that chipmunk !”
Whirling eyes of astonishment, Boo-hoo obediently re-
laxed his grip.

“Whick!” said my friend, and was gone in the wall.
Later, I went out to see how the rescued one was. I
fancied awful tooth-marks, perhaps an injured back ; but
there he was cocked up on a stone right by the fatal
corner, “not a shade on his brow,” as novelists say; and
gazing at me with unimpaired — impudence. “You are a
tough chipmunk!” I muttered; and he ably washed his
face. Apparently being in a cat's mouth is an every-day
affair.

And at lunch, which I had outdoors, with a fragrant
currant bush blossoming at my elbow, there he was not
five feet away, poising on the wall again frightfully

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THE LONE WINTER

mumpy as to cheeks, staring at me with bulging brown
eyes and one hand on his heart. . . . Why did he come,
if I was such a paralyzing sight? My bluebird flew by
to his tree with a beakful of worms, and I dreadfully
wanted to watch him feed Mrs. Bird, and see whether she
met him half-way and stuck her head out of the hole, or
whether he had to disappear all over in the hole himself ;
but I felt that this was the moment to find out, once for
all, which could sit still the longest, chipmunk or I. . . .
So I sat. And he sat. He did n’t stir a whisker. His
head was raised and turned to one side, with those absurd
mumps protruding; he had the air of a martyr. My ham
and eggs were cooling — and the tea-pot ; but I was n’t a
bit sorry for myself. I wondered what he had in those
pearl-gray cheeks ; I loved the shadings in his silky under-
coat, of which he was giving me so prolonged a view ; I
pitied the suspense of that hand on a beating heart; but
outwardly I was as still as Omega, — stiller, because I
didn’t wave in the wind. Except for a lock of hair,
or two. . . .

After an age, he slowly, very slowly, began to lower
that hand. In the course of several minutes it hung about
half-way down to the stone on which he sat. And there,
with his nose dramatically uplifted, a brown eye beseech-
ing heaven, he let it hang — for more minutes. I heaved
an unconscious sigh. One was rather hungry! But I
would see what was the idea of this possum business. In
the winter I had stood at windows in uncomfortable poses
often enough and then given it up; this time I would
see it out. The little gray hand was stealthily sinking
again. When it reached the stone and became a foot,
would he say “Whick!” and vanish? or would he run,

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THE LONE WINTER

with the cargo in those bumpy cheeks, to the hole near by
which had been his destination, and from which he was
being restrained by a winking giant in a splint-bottomed
chair ?

Just then came the smallest of sounds : Goliath, asleep
behind me, had lifted his head. . . . My chipmunk’s stone
was empty ! With not even the courtesy of a which , he
had invisibly — while I was staring at him — gone ! In
fact, there never had been a chipmunk. The world was
empty of them. . . . Exasperated, I resumed my cold
eggs and tepid tea. As usual, I had learned nothing. . . .
But I could not regret those moments. Longer than ever
before, my eyes had lingered on the very pattern of his
nostrils — the soft spot in his sleek stomach where the
breath puffed in and out — the curve and coloring of his
tiny claws — the slope and scope of impressive whiskers !
And I think he had equally digested me. It was the most
mutual time we had ever had. As for the chipmunk, he
doubtless retired full of naturalistic sensations, and will
discourse for the rest of his life on “Ogres Who Sit Still
and Wink!”

I have been out, dancing around bareheaded in the soft
rain, — my oats were to have been sowed to-day, alack!
and aren’t — to find out what bird it is that for a week
has been asking, all around the house, in the orchard, the
pear-trees, the plum-bushes — with such preternatural
sweetness — “Are you ready, Ma-ry?” For if any swain
addressed me in such tones, I know I should say “Yes,
darling!” and run for my hat. The little remark is so

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utterly alluring — courtesy, chivalry, and adoring gentle-
ness, all mingled.

I got my bird. He was perched on the tip of an apple-
tree by the bam as lovely to see as to hear, the very
Krishna of birds. Pale-yellow — like a tassel on a spring
willow ; and with a tilt of aspiration to his throat. In fact,
all I could see of him, as he sat on the toppest twig, was
goldenness and aspiration. . . . “ Are you ready, Ma-ry ?”
— with a sweetness that pierced the heart. One felt like
Leezie Lindsay of the ballad, when she found that “the
lad I ’m gon wi’ ” was in truth a “chie-ieftain of hi-igh —
de-gree !”

She has kilted her skirt of green satin — [neat dear ! so
as to leap nimbly on his horse]

She has kilted it up tae her knee; [hooray for her!]
She’s — aft!! — wi’ Lord Ronald MacDonald,

His bri-ide an’ his darlin’ tae be I

, And I am not going to look up that primrose-colored
voice of the spring in any book, and find what some person
has named him, or what his eggs look like. Dear heaven
— Eggs ? and that angel ? He ’s my Mary-bird, and I
know him. That is enough.

As I look at the hills, and the tints of the spring woods,
I think of a painter I once knew. I came across him
on the high hill of a back street in a fishing-village,
where one looked down on the lavender-hued lid of the
old town; he was behind his easel, sketching. Roofs,
mostly — they cluttered charmingly together, with humps
of trees interspersed. And he was so relieved because the
color, just then, was what it should be. (Like Whistler,
he felt that nature needed improving.) “In the spring,

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you see, you have purples to go with your greens.” So
he painted the spring. His colors were all arranged by
a sort of clock ; he showed it to me. Hands pointed, auto-
matically, to the ones that should go together . . . and so
greens must have purples alongside. His clock said so!

Painters all seem to have theories and superstitions
about purple; it is the color of problems. One of them
had his greatest satisfactions with twilight, “because then
there is purple in everything” ; another must have a cer-
tain purple in his skies; and so on. As for the art
students on every street corner of the old town, their
canvases were one purple yell. Only they preferred, say,
vermilion — to go with it. Green would have been too
modest, too literal, for any “clocks” of theirs. ... Is
there any green in Greenwich Village? . . .

But the little painter was right about the hills. You
do have “purples to go with your greens” — or rather,
greens, newly come, to consort with the purples you’ve
beautifully had all winter ! But you would have to hurry ;
those purples are being smothered fast — some of them
going red with blossom now. Maple-blossoms, mostly.
Here and there the trunk of a white birch gleams from
a smudge of true purple still; but the top of the average
woodland is red, where it is n’t every tint of pale yellow-
green. Mingling with all this, the shad-blossom trees are
a lovely note — a fairy laciness against deepening color.
Last year the road-makers cut down a beautiful one which
made a poem of a bend in the road ; they were “cleanin’
up the brush,” they told me. Brush ! A delicate mass of
fragrant, snowy, lavender-tinted bloom spattered on sky
and hill. . . .

So every day the greens are gaining. Alpha and Omega
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THE LONE WINTER

now cast noticeable fists of shade; everywhere the veil
is creeping. Sweet days ! but I do wish those oats were
in — and the precious grass-seed with them, to underlie
the oats. For I am veiling my plowed land, too. Hay is
our great need. Hay, for five months of nibbling; hay,
to trudge under all winter ! ... I do want one spring to
myself. And, when we do not plow and plant each season,
there will be less hurry and flustration. Nature will not
get ahead of one so. For eight springs I have plotted to
paint the poplars in Doone Valley; for eight springs I
have not done it. There are always “things” that must
be “seen to.”. . . There is no “must” like that of land.

So grass-seed, in white, determined bags, is in the com
barn to arrange that I shall paint those poplars next
spring.

I have not even seen them yet! ... I wander a great
deal, but it is fence-wandering, or wood-selecting, or a
trip to see if there is going to be enough fertilizer for
the two-acre piece, etc., etc. And yet one does like walks
with a purpose. Who knows but that another year I
may be wearying for the clink of a plow, the shout at a
rebellious team? . . . One likes, too, to be essentially
connected with humankind. Perhaps that is why men
become infatuated with business; coal, or brown sugar,
can be a link ! And there is an especially warm related-
ness about farming. . . . Sometimes in madly literary
moments, when the step of the agricultural interrupter is
heard on the back porch, I sigh for a garret, and ink,
and nothing else; and then I shiver at the idea of such
remoteness.

If one were not alone here, things would not bear on
one so onerously. One needs corroboration in farming!

[3i9]

THE LONE WINTER

The lack of it is one of the great evils of solitude. . . .
If I merely know my Babs is here, I wake with the
sunbeam on my pillow, but not the worries. . . . Daugh-
ter ’s in the opposite bedstead ; all ’s well with the
world. . . .

After all, it was the fault of the delphiniums that Polly
and I did not get over to the poplars the other afternoon.
The old house is banked with straw during the winter,
and the banking sits, of course, on certain of my per-
ennials planted in the house borders. It is legendary
to remove it some time in May, after danger of frost is
gone, but, this spring being fabulously early, I was
shocked to see, the other day, a struggling shoot of
delphinium crooked distressfully at me, a beckoning
finger, from under a board. Poor thing ! I had supposed
that plants thus buried would stay quiet “until called for” ;
but apparently darkness cannot smother them when
warmth calls, and, straw or no straw, that delphinium was
going to get to the light. Columbines there were, too,
and phlox; would they be also shooting, and getting
tangled in straw? I ran for a wheelbarrow and a fork.

That straw had been there since autumn, and was
well trodden down; I thought I should never come to
the bottom of it, which, when reached, was wet and odor-
ous and unpleasant. The cinnamon roses had grown
through it, too, and a slow, prickly time one had, picking
out damp straws wreathed about thorny stems. The sight
of frail white shoots piercing the sodden mass was not
reassuring, either; but wheelbarrow and I dug them out
at last. I did not count the number of tottling trips we
made to the barn-yard, with a tall fork stuck crowningly
into the top of the load : “Ouvrage couronne par l’Acade-

lAsol

THE LONE WINTER

mie Frangaise!" I murmured, grinning, as I pushed it,
while it gestured threateningly in my face, up the grassy
slope to the gate. It was hard pushing. To Cressy on
the salt-rocks, this industry was pleasant entertainment;
but Goliath, to whom, earlier, had been promised “a nice
ride with Big Missis !" yawned dismally as he lay and
watched, beating the ground with a conscious tail if I so
much as glanced his way, or rising to make beseeching
pretty-bows before the barrow. It always distresses him
to see me gardening. Needlessly fretting the face of na-
ture! Come and gallop over her instead, he begs; fleet
lightly o'er th' unbending corn. . . . Don't hoe !

There was rose-color on the hills, however, before the
last transparent shoot was liberated ; some of them broken
by a too inquiring fork, but the greater part erect and
surprised — at light and air. The one-armed man kindly
deserted his home-going harrow and removed the heavy
boards and stakes ; and wheelbarrow and I gazed proudly
on our neat beds. Light, ever mounting higher, struck
through the illuminated top of Omega, in which a cheery
robin sat, singing to the sunset, when a sudden pang shot
through me. Doone Valley ! and those poplars ! Lemon-
peel fragrance would soon be gone; the little twinkling
hearts losing their first grace. I sat down on the grass
and threw my arms about the collie's neck. “Too bad, old
man!" And he licked my face, agreeing.

But he collected, with venomous barks, a reluctant Polly
from the paddock, and we fared down the hill and under
such poplars as grow on the flat — they cheered us by
being unbelievably sweet, in the dusk — and had a “mad,
sad, bad" gallop for the mail. (Delicious — because one
is not supposed to gallop!) The collie rippled beside us;

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THE LONE WINTER

cool air cut through one’s hair ; all the evening sweetness
fluttered in one’s face. . . . After all, our own front val-
ley is pretty nice! though lacking the wildness and
thrushes of over the hill. Our little brook sang loudly;
ghostly white trilliums, or the pallor of yellow violets,
shone through the dusk. From a tall spruce, a whitethroat
sent his love-song trembling into the upper air, where stars
and love-songs live; and one came home in a maze of
poetry after all. It was warm on our hill ; the stars were
very big; and a strong waft of bitter almond from the
plum-bushes came down the darkening road to meet us.

The fists of shadow on the terrace grow bigger every
day. . . . Spring is going — going! But in the silence of
this one I have learned much. Never before have I really
assimilated bird-song. (Having learned English birds
when a child, I forget American birds as fast as I memo-
rize them!) Never till one gray evening last week, when
the world seemed cold and dreary, did I identify the robin
as the Beethoven of birds. His cheeriness, his habit of
singing when other choristers are abed, are of course
familiar ; but the sweet reasonableness of that song, noble,
true, and strong, had never appealed to me as it did while
I stood listening, quite alone.

I never knew, either, that budding leaves are scented
like flowers: birch leaves — like heliotrope; tiny maple-
clusters — delicious! Almost any blossomy spring odor
could be laid to them. Doubtless beech and elm, and other
tall ones you cannot reach, are just as delightful. . . *
Early this morning I walked up the first knoll, osten-
[322]

THE LONE WINTER

sibly to inspect a bunch of ponies who had tucked them-
selves out of sight for a day ; but — after a glance at their
well-filled sides (the ponies weren't at all thrilled to see
me!) — long-stemmed violets seemed more important.
They were so purple ; and so gorgeous. They seemed to
make up at least half the view ; and there were mountains,
and spring valleys! . . . Also, the easterly breeze was
made entirely of sweetbrier. There were bushes of sweet-
brier over by the old wall; could their fragrance fly so
far? I approached, sniffing — so absorbed that I pre-
sented a hand with violets in it, instead of the empty one,
to Lassie's friendly nose, and she ate them at a gulp! I
sat down, laughing, on the pleasant turf; and Lassie
jumped back, staring at me with dilated eyes. One does
not seat oneself in winter yards; she had never seen a
folded Missis. With much coaxing, I drew her near, and
soon had her investigating knees and puttees and boots.
Then, with care, I got up. Her eyes grew large, but
she bore it. It is something, to watch a long brown
thing unfold — and not run away. . . . She also bore,
with intent ears, a brief kiss on the end of the nose. We
don't consider them educated until they do.

I looked at the pasture sod while I sat under Lassie's
nose; every inch of it is precious. Except for the pies
of everlasting. There, millions of vigorous, silver-green
young shoots are preparing to agonize us in August —
with sheets of white . . . where green turf should be.
I'll have them mowed, every one. “You'll never get
rid of them things !" commented one of my fence boys,
sagely, when I announced this program ; but I shall try !
Sheep exterminate them; why not a scythe? . . . All
sheep use is — teeth ! Dozens of little white scythes !

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THE LONE WINTER

My jobs have grown absurdly light. The ponies are
in pasture; Cressy is out; I have only two horses in the
stable. I am lost without my usual involvements with
hay. Even Kim 'is gone ; I palmed him off yesterday on
an ardent young person with red cheeks and much cour-
age, who had ridden his sister, Kindness, one winter,
and was overjoyed, despite my warnings, to undertake
this warlike brother. I described his methods — unicorn,
green fire, and all ; but Verona’s eyes merely shone with
anticipation. She is a good rider, and so I saddled the
handsome devil (he showed off green fire wonderfully,
as he came out of his stall!), and carded his silver tail,
sending them off with my blessing and a few unprevent-
able shivers. Kim went stepping down the hill with great
decorum. Catching sight of Dolly in the paddock, he let
out a valedictory roar, but deigned to proceed — while I
stood praying on a stone. Last year his joy was leaps;
three leaps, crescendo, and the unskilled rider flew, at a
handsome parabolic curve, toward the ditch. . . . So,
holding my breath, I watched the nodding silver tail dis-
appear into the woods. I watched it emerge upon the
flats below and, trotting, swing the corner by the bams.
. . . Then I fled 1 Unlucky, to watch things out of sight I
That evening came a young voice on the telephone. . . .
Oh, no ! No trouble at all 1 . . . “He went lovely. He ’s
in the yard now, eatin’ grass. Oh, yes ; I like him awful.
He ’s a lovely rider 1” And so on, for minutes of rapture.
With a sigh of thankfulness I hung up the receiver.
Good-by, dear, dreadful Kimmie ! In a month you will
return, exercised and strong; meanwhile, the farm will
take its annual rest from roars. . . .

[ 324 ]

THE LONE WINTER

Ocean Wave is going soon. Two pleasant people trav-
ersed the pasture and stood enraptured, by the maple-
grove, at the sudden sight. All the pretty darlings on
a bright green hillside, above hollows blue with violets,
blue mountains trimming the view. Far below was the
farm-house in its patch of sunny emerald, with a plume
of white smoke floating. . . . And Shetlands show off
beautifully in pasture. Irritations have vanished ; scarcely
anybody kicks anybody else. Elizabeth was never more
charming — her baby manners beyond reproach; the visi-
tors cuddled her fuzziness, and yearned to put her in
the car and drive off with her. But they needed a ma-
ture performer; and their eyes roamed over the herd.
I related the Odyssey of Ocean: how she had traveled
nearly three hundred miles with us, carrying a sixty-
pound pack, coming up cheerful every morning, and wish-
ing to out-trot the horses ; how we had to lead her with
bit and bridle instead of a halter, or she would have
wound round us, all day, out of sheer ambition; how
she had faced a steam-ferry unmoved, had drunk out
of Lake George and Lake Champlain and Schroon Lake
and Schroon River, and knew the windings of the Iroquois
Trail as well as the heartlessness of miles of Tarvia at
a stretch — in short, how there never was such a pony
as Ocean. It will be hard to let her go. . . . Of course
she will have grooms and grain and blanketing and a loose-
box and all the luxuries, but she will be wistfully think-
ing, I know, of her mountain pasture — of the tiny, sweet-
tasting flowers, dew on the grass, a leafy bed, the flare of
red sunrise through the woods. . . . Hard, to have the
soul of a gipsy and yet do one's orderly little Shetland

[325]

THE LONE WINTER

duty every day; but she will. I know Ocean’s stout
heart.

But it wrings mine to think of it.

I am very magnificent. I have spread myself all over
the house. No longer would it be possible to broil a
chop over the dining-room fire; I must walk into the
kitchen and have the range in perfect order. . . . Why
this change? I do my hair in front of a mirror instead
of while strolling around, staring out of windows ; I
prink when I go out. I spend lordly evenings in a thirty-
foot living-room — I shouldn’t mind if it were forty! —
before a huge fire of logs. I am even thinking of changing
my night habitation into the guest-room looking out on
the cool tops of a western orchard, in order that I may
be slothful o’ mornings and elude the advances of my
heretofore-friend, the sunbeam. . . . Why this reaction
into luxury? Leonard Merrick, in his quiet way, men-
tions that insidious season wherein even “the tenant’s
fancy lightly turns to coats of paint” ; is it that that ails
me — me, a parent, a contented chaperon of beasts ? For,
though aware of no cause, I cannot but notice the effect !
The other day I read about a butler in some great house ;
immediately I was consumed by the swift longing: “How
I wish I had a butler !”

Yes, I can wish it now! In cold blood. A stately
butler, who would know how to bow, to usher in the
guest, to pass the English muffin. ... It would soothe
one’s very soul ! a soul usually revolted by formality and
butlers. . . .

[326]

THE LONE WINTER

There must be something very bad the matter.

Because nature is becoming attired and beautiful, must
one wish life to be attired, also? Is the ceremony of
the arrival of pink buds in an orchard a signal for a
like burgeoning in one’s spirit? Is all one’s preference
for “the flint and gravel of existence” to be upset by the
sight of a pear-tree in bloom?

And pear-trees are not yet in bloom ! They are waiting.
The world is waiting. It will be far more beautiful soon.
Just now it has become all one color. A single plum-
tree, though the hedge-blossoms have dropped to a pink
fuzz, is still like snow against the vivid grass, and I see
a rosiness gaining on the slow, gray-green foliage of the
old apple-trees; otherwise the world is one vast undula-
tion of pale, lacy yellow-green, the entr’acte in this drama
of spring color.

Birds seem to be waiting, too. They sing very Httle.
A piping here, a lone, warble there ; somewhere, perhaps,
a phoebe — or a chitter of fighting song-sparrows. The
woodpeckers cry “Peenk!” no more; my bluebird is quiet
on his twig. Can it be that “the time of the singing of
birds” is past? When one was just waking up to it?

I must sleep in my sunbeam. I must get up most
frightfully early and hear them. For they sing early,
even in June and July. And I can’t give up that thick
singing yet ; I don’t want solitary piping ; one needs, de-
serves, it thick, after the winter. . . . Just as one likes
sheets and masses of flowers. “Thick enough to paint,” I
cried once, in joy of a riot of rosy petunias against a
sea-wall, and everybody hooted. People are such asses.
You have to have flowers thick, to paint them — a ragout
of color; but who thinks about that? . . . And so I

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THE LONE WINTER

want song thick — that welter of it that conies in the dawn
with the spread of red behind the trees ; a low, dull red,
but the woods a-leap with melody.

I am going out to hear it leap. How stupid to molder
in a bed, with a few inches of air scraping in under a
sash, or, if you ’re very bold, a couple of sashes — with all
that divinity wasting just over the hill ! I will go out in
slippers in the dew. ... I have felt the dew on my bare
ankles — a cool splashing, very delicate. Nature is al-
ways delicate at dawn. There will be cobwebs on the
grass, shadowiness, a big star somewhere ; then the green-
wood will swallow me, drown me in wet leaf smells, bear
me up on a swell of song. . . .

I hope that by to-morrow I shall have got over this
feeling about butlers. If I go out and listen to the birds,
I shall. Fancy a butler in the woods ! “There ain’t no
such animal 1” . . . In socialistic mood, one feels it might
be better if there never had been; and yet one can’t im-
agine England without— or even English literature:
Thackeray, bereft of beloved Chawles and Jeames ! Un-
familiar as butlers are in most people’s lives, yet how they
are knit up with our traditions. We should n’t, mentally,
know what to do without them ; “they linger in that in-
ward eye !” Even the movies would be unhappy without
them, and ivied castle walls flavorless— for hoi polloi love
to look at liveries, and butlers are an indispensable corol-
lary of charming daughters in riding-clothes. They can’t
ride,— the daughters,— but so long as they and their curly
hair, the velvet and linen clothes, and the stately butler,
are there, the story is assured.

So perhaps my ailment is not so awful as I feared. But
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THE LONE WINTER

I still can’t cook in the dining-room, or live, as I have,
around one red coal, with one outlook, one flower on the
table, and one cat and dog. ... I am certainly, like the
orchard, bursting into — something!

Yesterday, a book of verses helped. I had been to the
village for the usual cargo, — essays, a Western story, a
novel or two of civilization, and a little volume of new
poetry, — arriving home weary; the drive had been long
and gray. Shadows had crept over the hills; a drop of
rain fell. As I came out of the barn, there above the
shadow lay a slice of brilliant sunshine across the tops
of the hills — uncommonly bright, because of a heavy belt
of cloud just above. Against the clouds was a rainbow,
dipping down into a wooded valley — the valley where I
had seen a girl fishing, as I drove along. The beautiful, pris-
matic colors were laid brightly against the woodland; if
one could go on a mad gallop down there (I told myself),
one would see that girl fishing in the rainbow ! For it went
down — right there ! One could poke a finger into it ! Over
the tops of some poplars I know, across a familiar clear-
ing where they got their wood in winter, over a belt of
young hemlock, down, down, into the brook, went the
colors. (I just could n’t see the brook.) I should like to
see a brook bottom illuminated. I wondered how the trout
would like it. I thought how thrice golden those cowslips
must look in it, that I had seen blossoming along the bank.
A girl fishing — a girl bareheaded, in a blue gown, would
look nice, too, in a rainbow. ... I had the greatest mind
to saddle JPolly ! But she was all nicely put to bed for the
night ; so I watched that arch above the illuminated woods.
An uplifting sight! Shadowy emerald, shadowy plum-

[329]

THE LONE WINTER

blossoms, shadowed hills; the burst of light through a
sullen sky — and the bow.

I went thoughtfully into the house to my books. I
always read the Western story first; but, after a few
chapters in this one, I shut it up in disgust. It was all
villains and bad grammar. One hears so much unfastid-
ious talk up here that to meet it in a book — and after that
rainbow — was too much. It rasped. “The White Com-
rade” caught my eye. Ah ! here was speech that fitted on
to the rainbow ; hungrily I read the little volume through.
It almost made one remember one had a soul. . . . This
month, I am sure, I have had none. I have not even
thought of it. Spring’s work and ponies and garden and
fence ; seed-oats, harrows, sweet peas ; three meals a day,
one’s writing clamoring, and — shall I exercise Polly or
Dolly this afternoon? — not to mention one’s spring bills
coming in a lump instead of spreading themselves over
months, as they should . . . where should one find, out of
all this, a soul?

But I fished it out and read verses to it, while it sat up
and took breaths. I read “The Day of a Thousand
Deaths.” Coming to the lines where Calamity proudly
says

. . I am not Worry, the cur whose bark
Slays fools in the dark” —

I pressed the page to my lips with a sudden smile. Curs,
yes! those worries sliding basely in on a sunbeam. (One
just needed to know they were curs!) Strange, that
there should be redemption in mere words, but I see tails
flying, now ! Never more, comrade, will I be slain by that
barking.

[330]

THE LONE WINTER

May 4.

A little wild apple-tree has bloomed in the back pasture.
Polly and I rode at it out of a poplar island last evening,
and for a moment halted, breathing the surprise of its
sweetness. There was sunset behind the blue mountains,
lonely notes from birds, peace everywhere. But Polly
began to fidget, and so I leaned over and plucked sprays
of the rosy flowers, and rode on home through the dusky
woods. By candle-light, they leaned entrancingly from
their copper pot. The room was filled with their fra-
grance; I could not read for looking at them. . . . But
what had they to look at? I suddenly thought. I had
taken them from sunsets and evening peace. . . . Un-
consciously, I straightened up and made a smile for
them. . . •

For wild apple-blossoms have something dewy about
them, something of the spirit. There is a wateriness about
their petals ; they grow in poetic streels and trails, not in
stodgy clumps like their cousins of the orchards, which,
for all their intention of beauty, we have made practical.
They mean barrels in the autumn, and they know it.
There is no such consciousness about a wild tree in bloom.
A shy look it has, an air of white muslin and virginity.
No one is making calculations about it. The bees besiege
it; but only wild birds and chipmunks will be the richer
for its ripened fruit. An adventurous cow, perhaps, may
taste the acid of its green balls, which it drops, gener-
ously ; but on the whole it is as refreshingly unproductive
as a dune. ... So I glanced uneasily about my room, to
see if it was doing my wild guests justice. It was not.
It failed to suggest either sunset or mountains ; there was

[3313

THE LONE WINTER

no dew falling, nor any thrill about the air. Candle-flames
might do for stars — but no; I should have left them out
in the sweet night.

* * *

May 5.

After all my and Thalma’s pains, Elizabeth apparently
is not weaned at all ! She had had six weeks to forget in
— an ample interval ; so I marched Thalma into the yard.
Elizabeth was illustrating a battle-field, — as usual on a
warm morning, — lying out flat with a very round stomach
to the sky, and Thalma stalked unnoticing to the trough.
She had a kicking-match with Beauty and Fascination,
just as a refreshing little welcome back to the herd ; then
I rooted up Elizabeth with my toe. “Come see who’s
here !”

She lifted her little head, blinking fast : “Where am I ?”
Then two small fore legs shot out ; she hopped up, gave a
swift stretch, and looked alertly about her.

At once she saw the shabby black form over by the
rocks. She cocked up her head. “Hu-uh?” she began,
questioningly ; then, with a sudden shout, “Hoo-000/” —
bounded ecstatically to her mother’s side. Thalma swung
round. With shining eyes they exchanged neck-bites, — a
long, long neck-bite, — while I looked on, complacent. . . .
It was as I had hoped. They were the best of friends, but
nothing more; and just then, with the sure aim of long
practice, the young lady dived her nose downward. . . .

“Oh, dear!” I wailed, running up, “don’t, Elizabeth!”
and tried to pry her away. She clung like a limpet.

“Elizabeth!” I protested, and finally detached her.
“Now run along, and don’t be a silly.” At which she
eyed me in amazement — and stepped round to the other

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side ! . . . Six weeks, since Thalma had been “milked” ; a
cow’s milk, by this time, would be frightfully bad. This
might give Elizabeth colic, or some awful thing. . . .
Bending over, I anxiously milked, with thumb and finger,
on the side nearest me, that soot-black, shiny little teat,
when, to my astonishment, a fragrant stream flew forth —
white, thin, good as new 1 Elizabeth, on her side, steadily
imbibed. I stood back marveling. Six weeks ! It must
be the force of sheer affection which had kept that milk
fresh so long ; Thalma was evidently equipped with some
marvel of maternal mechanism whereby she could be
Elizabeth’s mother till the end of time. . . . Nature
surely willed it; I would interfere no more.

Gli and I have had such a nice little dark walk for the
cream. I went to get Polly, but she was still munching
supper; so I said, “Old man, we ’ll walk.”

It was late twilight as we started down the mowing
road, and Goliath kept rushing back to me, panting. “Are
you really going to walk, Missis ?” Finally convinced, he
dashed off to his woodchuck hole in the hollow. (He has
a regular round of these ; we see him starting off with a
certain jolly air that belongs to woodchucks only, and say,
“Ah! Doctor Gli — going to visit his dear patients!”)

Dark was coming fast, the stars brightening every mo-
ment ; and, at the wooded corner where the frog pond is,
their full chorus smote us. “Tweety-tooty ! Tweety-
tooty-tweety-tweety-tooty-tweety-tooty ! . . It
dreadful ! Footsteps usually silence f vogs ; but, though I
caught the ghostly shine of the pond down through the
little birches, and almost fancied, so keen were the sounds
in my ear, that I could see small mouths wagging beside
tussocks of grass, the chorus swelled rather than lessened.

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I tried a rival whistle. How feeble, how thick, it sounded,
beside this piercing, knife-blade clearness! I whistled
louder and longer — Siegfried’s "Bird.” Nothing hap-
pened, except that one felt foolish. I shouted, a medieval
"Ho, there !” But, unabashed in their safe pond, Tweety-
tooty and Co. kept on, shriller than ever. . . . Determined
minstrels! So Goliath and I (Goliath had been worrying,
and kissing my hand, all during my vain performances)
hastened on, thankful that the pond was not on our land.

The little road undulated out into the starlight again.
It is bordered with wild cherry-bushes, which were in
blossom. I could see the white blooms quite clearly, hung
on the darkness like bits of light. A very big star was
right overhead, blinking into the lane. As we climbed a
grassy hill, the dark bowl of the valley fell below us. A
few lights shone in it. Above the rim of mountains the
sky was bright, and steely-clear— hardly a night sky, yet
popping with stars.

It began to seem rather a long way to the cream. I am
not used to my own feet; and Polly’s are so agile. . . .
The dark shape of the farm-house stood below us, look-
ing very uncommunicative. I wondered if they were all
away. That would mean a trip before breakfast. . . .
Sunday morning, too. Ha ! a dim light in the kitchen ; I
mounted the porch. The shades were tight down ; a scut-
tering of bare feet was heard. Bath night ! and, hesitat-
ing a moment, I gently rapped. More flying feet; silence.
Then the hasty steps of Mother, who opened the door,
smiling. A very pink little face under pinned-up curls,
and above a clean flannel nightie, peeped whimsically from
the pantry door.

"She ’s just through !” laughed Mother. "I told her to

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run in there”; and my little friend came dancing out,
holding up her long gown. The men-folks were gone to
the store. Behind a proudly borne lamp we all trooped
into the parlor to see the newly whitened ceiling — a fresh-
smellihg job, clean as new milk. The hall and kitchen
ceilings had been done, too. I peered, in envy. Lucile,
just out of a hot tub, sneezed — the cunningest little
pussy-sneeze.

“Go to bed, bad child !” I commanded. She shook her
curls.

“Nope !” said she, and hopped gaily about the room.

'My cream being bottled, and the bottle religiously
wiped, the lamp saw me to the door. “It’s good you
ain’t timid,” murmured Ma, glancing out into the night.
It looked, of course, pitch-black. Assuring her of its
dazzling brightness once you were out in it, we departed
briskly up the hill. The sky was even more luminous
than before. Goliath trotted ahead of me — as good a
mud-puddle as one could wish ; the exact tint of a long,
slim puddle in the wheel-track. (One would have turned
out so as not to splash in him!) But the puddle trotted
companionably along; I was glad it was a movable one,
to come up and kiss one’s hand occasionally. ... As we
again reached the bit of black woods and hurried by the
shouting frogs, we came into clear starlight. Across the
little valley, black orchards snuggled the farm-house, with
here a roof-line, here a chimney, struck out upon the
stars; and the dear scent of home came to us. No light
in any window; but the plum- and cherry-trees shone at
us as we passed. In a rill of the little brook (an inch-
wide rill) sat a whole star, looking up at us! It was
beautiful, gleaming there. Grasses grew about it; the

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dark edge of the rill was its frame : a whole star, shining
humbly at one’s feet. . . .

Plump the cream in running spring- water ; light the
lamp so that it shines on the good colors of books —
there!

One remembered dodging cars and trucks on a similar
errand in town. Up here one is wrapped in the “joy of
mere living.” One needs little of Browning’s “rending
the bough from the fir tree,” — I can't rend, with a frontis-
piece — or of indulging, unless one wishes, in “cool silver
shocks.” The mere calm pursuit of bread and butter,
glorified by stretches of leisure, is sufficient; charms fall
before one, like my plum-blossoms in a strong wind !

But I had more than a cool silver shock yesterday when
I discovered I had not seen Kindness for three days.
Bunches of ponies had been in the yard, other bunches on
the hillside, but no Kindness. Fright seized me. She is a
great climber; I thought of our new wire, just right for
trapping adventurous legs. We had had horses in wire,
and Cressy; was this a pony’s turn? . . . The glorious
morning went suddenly black ; I snatched a bit of break-
fast, flung on an impatient saddle, and was off . . . . It ’s
funny, how fond you get of anything you think you ’ve
lost ! In a flash, it came to me how irreplaceable Kindness
is. We had so meant to mate her — in true mythological
style — with her half-brother Kim, and have a peerless,
long-legged, sweet-dispositioned colt!

The ponies were, kindly, in sight. I rode through them,
counting hastily, and totally disregarding Polly’s hints as
to stopping and looking at this one or that. (“Nice fat
pony. Missis !” she remarks, halting ; “had n’t you better
get off and look at him?”) With a dig of my heel I sent

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a grieved Polly flying up the hill. This was no trip of
admirations! ... We vainly searched the high knoll;
then I dismounted and tramped down it, lugging an
indignant horse. Mounting, I trotted swiftly along the
fence — woven wire, here ; my heart shrank whenever we
swung a corner. No Kindness ! . . . Down through the
glamorous woods, out into the lower pasture, under wild
apple-trees in bloom, across the brook, down by the spring
. . . the lump in one's throat gripping worse. . . * Our
fence was mended — that was the tragedy; not even our
worst ponies had been out. . . . Something must have
happened.

Along an old lumber road, now ; saplings smothered it
— a bath of silken green ! Green wash-cloths wiped one's
face. Polly plunged a little; I crouched blindly on her
neck. At last we were in a clearing, and I battled up the
cliff trail on foot. Plenty of wire here : cattle had had a
runway through. Under a hemlock a prostrate blackness
gave me a shock; but it was a stump, not a hurt pony. . . .
Panting, I labored on up the* steep, wet trail — clear up, to
the bright emptiness of the high knoll ; stared about with a
heavy heart; went crashing down. Polly, listening,. was
in a fright when I came out to her, but whinnered, at sight
of me. Meeting her friendly eyes, I hid my face in her
mane. “Can’t find her, Pip. . . . Oh, I wish Babs was
here!” Yes, this was Worry. Curs had me now. There
was no shaking them off. Visions of Kindness in every
state of woe and misery stalked before me ; I set my teeth
and plunged down the hill. Gli, with a tail of tragedy,
followed sadly at my heels. Down and down, through
snow-white birches mottled with sunshine. Not a living
thing in sight.

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I turned Polly along the old road again. From far up
the valley came a noon whistle ; we would eat, then begin
the round of the neighbors. I felt a bit serener, now I
knew, absolutely, she was n’t in a fence. After dinner we
trotted out the cherry lane. . . Just look into Morton’s
pasture,” I muttered; I had scanned it a hundred times
that morning. Cows, yes, oxen with fence-jumpers on —
a pair of big colts — and Something beside them ! Some-
thing not a cow — I loosed the rein ; there was a rippling
under me . . . cowslips shone at us ; and Polly, with ears
set forward, dashed into my neighbor’s yard.

“Yas ’m, she ’s over thar with my colts. . . . She come
through while we was fixin’ our fence. . . . ’Ben here
near a week.. . t . Was thinkin’ I ’d tell ye she was here,
but she ain’t bothered me none. . . .”

Never was such golden sunlight! How exquisite the
light on those bare hillsides as I let down the pasture bars.
. . . Sweetbrier fragrance escorted us. Riding away, a
black head bobbing beside my knee, I felt I could never
worry again. The wild apple-trees were one shout of
joy; and Kindness had eager ears for her home.

* * *

May 8.

A wonderful morning. Radishes and lettuce are up ; I
arrived at the bam in three leaps, and came back in one !
A book for breakfast — but not Leonard Merrick; a new
volume of his lies on the table, but, much as I prize him,
he is not the stuff that breakfasts are made of. Or should
be made of! The merest touch of lassitude, a hint of
cynicism, — one hardly knows they are there, — but some-
how the sparkle is off the day ; the world seems older. In

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THE LONE WINTER

the evening these aspects appear, in some odd way, fam-
iliar; one takes them more tolerantly; but they go vilely
with a morning mood. . . . And this morning went oil in
leaps. I even leaped up-stairs for a book so violently that
Goliath, who is not used to literary dashes, thought surely
some treasured animal must be dying and tumbled after
me so fast he fell over his own legs. Then he stood and
surveyed me, panting, with farm worry in his eyes, so
that I had to take a minute to pat and reassure him; then
sat down causelessly grinning, at my desk.

It was preparing to be beautiful, I could see last eve-
ning. The moon had a pearly look; under it even the
barn-yard was lovely and slept, all silver and black, with
bright glitters on the watering-trough. The ponies were
most sentimental. A few of them had not gone to the
woods but were standing about, with angel faces. Kick
each other? Never heard of such a thing. So sweet!
The moonlight made the tops of their manes sparkle;
their eyes were soft and dark, their white patches pure
silver. Fantana, standing quietly by the salt-rocks, with
her long, waving, silver mane and a rapt expression, was
a poem; not a bitter ear did she exhibit ; not once did she
back upon the others — Fantana, who loathes her dear com-
panions !

The horses, too, in the paddock swamp, forgot their
dewy suppers and stared at me with unworldly affection.
They came to the bars and stood there, with their four
heads together — sentiment unutterable ! Their necks were
sheeny, like pale-blue satin; they leaned gently over the
bars, sniffing me with soft nostrils, while their eyes
gleamed in the moonlight. My Polly’s white star shone
peacefully. Even when Dolly stumbled against her she

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did not frown; and, as I left them, Boo-boo, who had
followed me, prostrated himself every instant before my
feet. Such a moonlit white stomach! Indeed, a loving
pilgrimage ; and I was merely out to see the moon !

Dolly, having shed her “winter garment of repentance,”
is now clad in the “fire of spring” ; once more shiny and
beautiful. I have been letting her “out around” in the
mowings ; when I go to the bam door and shout “Dolly-
Dolly-Dolly !” I hear a thunder of hoofs, and round the
comer at full gallop she comes, tail out, nose high and to
one side — just like Mr. Seton’s Pacing Mustang racing
across the desert. Lovely, when you call an animal, to
have it come at you full tilt! But the secret of this beau-
tiful suddenness is that when she dawdles I send Goliath
after her, and Dolly loathes being barked at; she halts be-
side me with wild snorts, staring back over her shoulder
in horror.

“Tis not death with thee I fear—

Only life with one behind !”

and she rolls a terrified eye for That Dog.

I have been having lovely long days of late. My alarm-
clock is working. At six every morning it begins to walk
round my neighbor’s pasture and bawl. ... A lone cow !
expecting a herd to join her, which it does at seven thirty
exactly. Until then she laments. A raucous and doleful
voice, she has; it fills the valley, then bats round among
the hills. At first I used to say “Oh !” after each bawl ; or,
“Oh, you superfluous beast!” Now I simply get up.
There is no hope of its stopping. All winter long, this
animal, purchased from a herd by my neighbor, has bel-
lowed in her stable, refusing to reconcile herself to soli-

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tude. Even the sweet-tempered house-mother complained
— the first note of repining I ever heard from that sunny-
hearted person.

“Bring her up here,” I suggested, “and well bellow
in company. I don’t like being alone, either !”

Such a contrast to my dignified Cressy. Cressy esteems
companionship; but she takes herself up the knoll to feed,
then saunters down for a drink, and a bit of human
society — but never a sound from her. She is especially
confiding, these days, seeming to- know she is coming near
the time of dependence on human ministrations. . . .
Sometimes she needs them, for other reasons. The other
evening, seeing lovely swirls of pink over the knoll, I
thought I would climb it, and round the corner of the lane
I came upon a sad sight — my poor Cressy, stuck fast in
the fence. She had poked her head through a square of
the woven wire ; by the hoof-marks and other signs, I saw
she had been there for hours. Grasping one horn, I tried
to curve her head back out again.

“You got it in, Cressy,” I muttered, striving. “Why
can’t I get it out?’*

But wire was stiff, horns obstinate, and between them
fingers were pinched grievously! I gave it up.

“Wait a minute, old dear !” I shouted, pelting down the
lane, “I ’ll get something. Missis fix Cressy ; yes !” For
she was staring after me with anguished eyes. “Missis
coming!” I called, racing furiously from the barn with
the wire-cutters. It is hard to race and yell at the same
time; but she had already pulled down a post with her
wrestles, and I was afraid she would struggle again and
get still more tangled. She greeted me with a glad little
“Mm-m!” as I stopped, panting, beside her. Cl-l-ipp!

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THE LONE WINTER

and out she wrenched her poor head— all sawed raw be-
hind the ears.

“Get along out of here — hoy!” I remarked sternly, now
the worry was over. “Beat it along, — h’sh-ha ! and don’t
look at plum-bushes again !” Cressy departed. I set up
the post.

My sunset was nearly gone ; but the “nearly” of a sun-
set means beautiful burnings along the hills. The hills
were violet; the clear sky green; the valleys were
smoothed with dusk. And after the flurry I heaved a
sigh of extra-peaceful peace.

* * *

May io.

To-day is an exquisite one of piled-up, tinted clouds.
Also the terrace has had its first mowing. That, on most
terraces, would not be much of an event, but it takes a
psychologist to do ours. The dear thing is all undula-
tions: small, mossy humps, swellings leading up to flower-
beds, or interstices between the rose-bushes ; sunken spots ;
nameless, ancestral elevations edged with sunken stones;
in fact, a succession of subtleties. And the mowing-
machine, knowing those humps since last season, is remi-
niscently dull. One takes little runs at things, then runs
at them again; goes scoopy-fashion up small banks;
makes short but intense charges at grass in the crevices of
the flat wall top (being careful not to nip the shoots of
tiger-lilies) — also at weeds that assemble under the wild
grape-vine ; last of all, with heed not to touch the peren-
nials, one rears the mower on one wheel and steers it
breathlessly along the raised edge of the flower borders,

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THE LONE WINTER

. . . Combat all the time. That is why I like doing it
I suppose. . . . Once shaven, the undulations really look
nice. The curving line of the cinnamon rose jungle
stands out clearly, — a clear line is always a pleasure, —
and, though my pansy-bed is as yet only well-raked earth
(it being early for plants), its fresh brown circle is not
undecorative.

Frontispiece murmurs to-night. Mowing is not only
strenuous but cumulative. You think you ’ll only just do
one little bit ; and you end with the whole thing. Beguiled
by the finished charm of the upper terrace, I did the lower
one, — which was nearly long-haired enough for hay! —
and the side lawn, and the driveway, and the borders ; I
slew at least a thousand baby maples, children of Alpha
and Omega, whose small, tawny heads had been annoying
me for a week (one does n’t want a maple forest on one’s
lawn ! it ’s bad enough to have one spreading in the pas-
ture) ; also an incipient grove of plantains, whose leaves
greedily overtopped the young grass.

And then I was interrupted. A person in a car came to
carry off some of our pasture sweetbrier-bushes for his
city garden. Leaving his wife and daughter comfortably
in the car, to be entertained by scenery, — our view is a
sort of secondary hostess ! — the gentleman and I departed.
He had grain-bags and newspapers under his arm, and we
acquired a sharp-pointed shovel from the com barn. He
was a nice, nervous, courteous little man and stepped
beside me with alacrity; he became enthusiastic about
violets in the lane — I wished he could have seen the riot of
them by the woods! — and talked animatedly about his
garden. He takes it presents from everywhere.

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THE LONE WINTER

But I wondered at his methods. Coming to a thick
clump of sweetbrier, I turned him loose in it : “Take any-
thing you want !”

His eyes shone. He planted the toe of the shovel in
the turf, and heaved. Pasture sod is tough. Looking a
trifle nonplussed, he selected another vantage-point and
fell upon it with zeal. “Ha ! struck a root that time !” he
muttered ; and fell to digging with both hands. There was
much of the terrier in that technique, I reflected. Dirt
flew. “I’ve got it!” he cried, and came up with a bare
root gripped in both hands.

“Oh !” I murmured, “you want some earth with it, don’t
you ?”

“Thank you !” he said submissively. “Yes, I do. . . .
Will that be enough ? About so, do you think ?” . . .

I rose to help him secure the treasure ; and we tramped
toward another clump behind the maple-grove. Elizabeth
was grazing here, and delayed us, for the city person
proceeded to fall direly in love with her. “That lit-tle
Shetland baby !” he raptly murmured ; and I had to point
out the clump of rose-bushes ahead, to lure him on. The
sky got him a little later ; he stood transfixed, with cloud-
shadows and mountains. “We don’t get this from the
hotel,” he complained. “And when we first motor out of
town, the sky — the air — it ’s like getting out of a — out of

a— jail!”

Poor man; my heart warmed to him. I know how it
feels to get out of town.

His battles with this thicket were even more fervent;
he dug as if life depended on it, punching furiously at
everlasting plants that would twine about his selected
roots. I told him it did me good to see somebody besides

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THE LONE WINTER

myself wrestling with everlasting. And he flashed me a
nervous smile.

“How can I ever get rid of it?” I asked him, gazing
despondently round at the reviving pies ; I was seated on
one of them.

“I don’t know,” he said shortly. Evidently the problem
did not interest him. Something suddenly cooled within
me.

“Oh, very well, little man!” I thought; “go on and take

my sweetbriers, though ” and then I was ashamed. I

wandered off to pick violets.

Human society being irresistible to her genial soul,
Cressy soon became a spectator of our labors, blowing
amiably, and desirous of tasting the gentleman’s sleeve.
He was amused at that, and made flighty gestures in the
direction of her outstretched nose. As I was sitting down
on my comfortable pie, an outcry startled me. “Oh! my
bag l’ 3 It was wiggling in the cow’s mouth ! I detached it.

“No, Cressy!”

“Wh-oo!” she breathed, and seized a strong young
thistle instead, blinking a little, then munching it down
with gusto. The visitor gurgled with delight at this ex-
ploit. He was really a nice, sporty little man, I thought —
decent of him, to forgive her for chewing his bag ; and we
started down the hill, collecting as we went — Cressy, of
course, accompanying us, and frolicking thunderously
ahead.

He had not the least idea where his sweetbriers were,
and with fixed eye was steaming by a deposit of them
when I mentioned their existence. He stooped to acquire
them. His methods were passionate. “Ouch !” he ejacu-
lated, sucking a thumb. It is not well to hurry a brier !

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THE LONE WINTER

Finally we reached the wall and settled down to pack. I
held open the mouth of a bag, and a fervid jamming
began. So intense was he that little, mute grunts, of
which he was quite unconscious, escaped him as he
worked.

“Gently!” I warned; “sl-o-ow! Go easy, please!
Whoa!” And then blushed to find myself using horse
language. . . . But indeed all one’s best colt-handling tac-
tics were needed.

At last the roots were all in. We hastened down the
lane, the thorny shoots of the bundle waving about and
menacing my companion’s head. He pawed at them but
sped fervently along. I mentioned the sky; he gazed
docilely upward, stubbed his toe, but grew calmer. Violets
enchained him ; he smiled, and, as I put the shovel in the
corn bam, thanked me beautifully. “For these, for giv-
ing me your time, for the great pleasure it has been!”
Had it? I was truly glad : but — to take one’s pleasure so
hard ! It would tire me out in a day.

* * *

May 15.

This life is so animating. To glance up out of your
kitchen window, where you are somewhat vacantly peel-
ing a banana, and perceive that far up on the pasture
knoll, against the sky, your neighbor’s ox — whom you
know a mile away, he is so big — is digging his wooden
“poke” into the brush fence and trying to demolish it —
would broaden, it seems, the horizon of any banana. It
made mine very gay. We giggled together at the efforts
of the clumsy beast to step over his dangling bib, we
jeered when it got caught in a rail, we rejoiced when he

[346]

THE LONE WINTER

gave up and turned, with an angry shake of the head,
away. Our appetite was much improved by his exertions.

I should hate a kitchen window where I could n’t watch
beasts a mile away ! . . .

Boo-boo is getting perfectly absurd over his food. He
wants everything boiling hot. While Cressy is “dry,” I
have been giving him canned milk with water from the
tea-kettle in it. Watching the kettle waving around over
his head, he apparently thinks it produces his whole meal,
for now, unless I wave tea-kettle over other things I offer
him, he won’t touch them, and walks off, twitching his
stub ! . . . Such a silly cat — and yet it all comes from his
excessive brains. Most pussies would n’t connect things
so. But — boiling water on bread and gravy ; boiling water
on potato. Ugh ! . . .

We are expecting that calf every day, Cressy and I.
She is “bagging up” terrifically. Unless my Babs
(Cressy’s rightful owner) comes home in time, I shall
soon be milking about thirty quarts a day, by the looks.
As she is out on green grass, and has been for weeks, it
ought to be a superior calf. I do look forward to one.
There has n’t been a calf on the farm since the momentous
six we raised in war-time, Cressy having had hers in
winter, on some one else’s farm. But they were bull
calves. I want a heifer this time. Badly !

* * *

May 18.

In search of one small pony, whom I desired to ensnare
in harness, Polly and I had a simple-minded trip through
all our woods. He was an elusive pony, not to be found
in the open pasture, and so down the trails I rode ; down

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THE LONE WINTER

the wet, trickling, poplary way to the spring. Donny was
there, — very surprised to see us, — and Pud and Kindness
and Beauty and Elizabeth and everybody I usually want
but did n’t to-day, but no Sir Dignity. So up a steep bank
we scrabbled, trying not to step on the wild strawberry-
blossoms (for this is where our jam and shortcakes come
from!) ; then back into the woods. How different from
a week ago! No flowers: not a petal, where sheets of
them were ; and but little bird-song. A kind wood-thrush
was still saying “O Heliopolis !” over and over again — a
fragment probably left from his early-morning soliloquy;
but leaf-flutterings were about one’s head, and, as we
plunged into the dark sea-green of a hemlock, partridge-
thunder made us both jump, and I watched the flight of
the brown creatures through the woods.

Still searching, — treading on violets this time! — we
climbed the knoll, were prostrated by navy-blue mountains
and sun-checkered plains, rubbed the inquiring heads of
Thalma and Superb and their gangs, engaged in the un-
worldly job of eating inedible-looking moss on the rocky
summit, but quite innocent as to the whereabouts of
Dignity. Baffled, we descended. Turning into the lane,
I gave a sudden grin : in the barn-yard stood a little black
and white form, — Diggie, — “ipse, ipsissimus!” — meditat-
ing by the trough.

“Well, Pip,” I said, amused, “we got him, anyway!”
Leading him into the bam, I put the harness on, draping
it respectfully about him, lifting his thick white tail, so
boneless and unsuspicious, into the crouper (an older,
more experienced pony clamps down a stiff tail-bone, like
a horse), and buckling the little girths. He is accustomed
to the bit, having been ridden a few times last summer*

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and so he chewed only moderately on that and stepped out
of the barn like a little man, perplexed by his blinkers but
trying to behave as if he knew all about everything. That
is a Shetland’s pride, never to be astonished at anything.
He stared deeply at the bright-red cart awaiting him, but
stood quiet and calm while I popped shafts over him,
slipped the nearest one into the loop, then reached in-
formally over the little back and put in the other, without
having to go round ! That is a help, with a fretty pony.
But there was no fret in Dig. Growing very bold, I
hauled at the traces to fasten them ; I even shifted the cart
back and forth to adjust the holdbacks ; he did not budge.
Putting a hand under the collar to be sure it “set” right,
and informing Diggie that he was a seraph from the
skies, I took up the reins. He yawed a little, then bent
to his job. The cart moved off !

I walked behind it. Up the hill of the mowing road, to
show him how to pull (and if he wanted to run away it
wouldn’t matter) ; down it again, to show him how to
hold back, which he did like a Trojan, bracing his fore
legs, squaring his little fat hips (no cart was going to
push him down that hill !), and sitting nobly back into the
breeching. He seemed to need no showing; so then it
was we for

... the open road,

And the bright eyes of danger!

The little red cart-wheels rattled abominably over a
stony bit ; but not a flick of an ear cared he. Down the
steep pitches we went — where he grew irked with the
weight of the cart, and I had to soothe a little; then out
on the safer flat by the willows, where I took a flying
mount over the back of the seat. Though the shafts

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whopped outrageously up and down, the good little chap
disregarded them, only turning a wondering ear backward.
So, very grandly, we debouched on the main road and set
off for the village. O excellent Dig! at a most narrow
turn we heard a roaring, and the bonnet of a big car shot
over a hill; into the gutter we swung — and out again,
without comment from my ready-made steed. Bless his
heart ! He held up his square nose, with the square fore-
top bobbing upon it, and traveled like the sturdy chap he
is; his neck is square, too. He looked too darling! I
stepped out backward several times, just to look at him;
and wanted to hug him. But he was too beautifully on
his job.

We drew up in front of the post-office, collected mail
and ten pounds of sugar, and started homeward. The
first turning is always awkward ; with a shaft boring into
his shoulder, Dig's eye grew momentarily fiery, but he
regained his calm and trotted off, tugging me and the
sugar gamely up the hills. On the pitches I saw that his
shoulder-muscles were shaking, and dismounted hastily.
At every thankymarm Dig gazed round at me affection-
ately, panting hard to show how much I was doing for
him, but, upon reaching the shed, dropped his head and
stood, quivering, too tired even to nip at grass. The
mental strain of a first trip is tremendous ; for a Shetland
gets his education at a gulp. Dignity was now a fully
trained pony L

* * *

May 21.

Boo-boo is wringing my heart. Every day, sometimes
twice a day, he catches a chipmunk and, pr-owing, brings

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it to my feet. Or I am on the spot and see him as he
catches it. My terrace chipmunk, my bam chipmunk, the
chipmunk that races along the orchard wall; the half-
dozen of them that chirp and boast on the wood-piles —
scarce one but has been laid before me, and is decorated
with tooth-marks. For I rescue, as regularly as Boo
captures them. We have a perfect system. Perhaps I am
in the. living-room and hear wauls approaching — the
muffled sounds that announce a mouthful. I dash out;
there comes that yellow thing, with a bunch of brown
under his chin. I see the chipmunk's bright eye, his jerk-
ing leg ; Boo has him gripped by the shoulder only. “Drop
that chipmunk !” I order. And Boo-boo obediently opens
his jaws. (What feline but a rabbit-cat would be simple
enough to do that, day after day ?) Sometimes the victim
darts away; sometimes he hops crazily up and down a
moment (while Boo's eyes go black, and I hook a finger
securely in his collar!), and then makes his escape; but
we have never yet had one so seriously damaged that he
could not, sooner or later, run away.

So all our Star Hill chipmunks are branded. I marvel
at their subsequent calm. Tooth-marks seated, chirping,
on the wall; tooth-marks gliding impudently across my
path; tooth-marks loudly courting destruction on the sum-
mit of a wood-pile! They even sit there, conspicuously
lashing their tails, as Boo-boo approaches; and though
they keep a pretty steady eye on him, not till the last
possible moment do they cease their advertising chip !
Sporty chipmunks, indeed; and I suspect that some of
them have been caught and tooth-marked more than once.

One day it was a song-sparrow. He lay limp in my
hand, and I despaired of him ; but put him in a box on the

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kitchen floor, with some cracker-crumbs. On coming out,
later, I saw him perched on a water-pipe overhead, looking
alertly around ! I flung open the door. “Cheep !” said he,
and did one brown flit to the balsam-tree. There he
seemed to be rejoicing over his escape; he flew about,
chirruped, told the phoebe-birds all about it, then darted
away to a young maple-tree and burst into glorious song.
... I was so happy. That is the only bird Boo has
brought. Just now he is infatuated with fur.

* * *

May 22.

The time has come of the night-murmuring of Alpha
and Omega. Hitherto their leaves have not been big
enough to murmur, but now the winds lift them, and
lovely sounds begin. Very different from their summer
song, which is crisp and rustly; this is smooth as satin — a
deciduous sound, soft as any pine-tree's voice, without the
moan of it. You ’d know it came from something vivid-
green. The leaves are large, yet not stiff ; their clusters
still hang silkily, like little green umbrellas. . . .

Last evening there was a bright half-moon, and Goliath
and I went out on the terrace. The orchard is half out of
bloom — all the more fairy-like, with the faintly bright
crowns above the crooked, ink-black stems. Their shad-
ows were not sharp but lay softly in the moonlit fair-
ness of the grass. Beyond, our mountain mowing and its
black woods rose against a sky of dazzling, fair blue. . . .
But the orchard, in that light, made one think of beach-
plum blossoming on the sand-dunes — a perfect bit of Jap-
anese art. There is an economy about a dune, a simplicity
of line and color, that is in itself Japanese; put against

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that the wind-blown growth of a beach-plum, with its
crooked, brown branches, and blossoms a ravishing pale-
pink, and — you have something, as painters say. It makes
one wriggle to be there! . . . Legs of one’s camp-stool
sunk deep in sand. . . . Sand in one’s paint-box — but
never mind! . . .

Above us towered the two mountains of trees. Alpha
was ink-black, the moon glittering through chinks of her ;
but one side of ’Mega was in soft light. There was a
fiddling in her leaves ; her boughs began a gentle dance ;
the murmuring rose, lulled, passed across the river of
light, between them, and did the same to Alpha. One big
star and two small ones glittered in the river — which ran
down and made a tide-harbor of itself along a dark
shore of mountains. The shape of that blue river, and its
flowings along the hills, is conspicuous in moonlight;
exactly like a dozen basin-harbors I know on the dear old
Cape. The stars should be cat-boats, anchored about ; but
where, oh where, are the mosquitoes ?

* * He

May 24.

People from town are beginning to wander back into
the hills. I am getting dreadfully social — yesterday might
have gone to two dinners. Polly and I sauntered five
miles over the mountains to the selected one, for the
valley roads were dusty and a scorching wind burned one’s
skin. But it was a beautiful dinner. Afterward, when
we were having coffee on the lawn, I could look across
valleys to a bald spot on a hilltop — and that was our own
pasture knoll ! One could almost fancy Ocean Wave with
her chin on the back fence, yammering to get out! . . .

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Jolly, to supervise one’s belongings from the middle of a
party!

Outdoors is growing renewedly social, too. For days I
have been surrounded by happy catbirds. White bloom
has gone from the little orchard, and a brown fuzz taken
its place. Infant cherries are forming under the fuzz, and
well do the robins and catbirds know it. Day after day
they sit around, shouting anticipations from every tree,
and as soon as a lone cherry is ripe they swoop at it. It is
so inhumane of cherries to ripen one by one ! They really
can’t be picked that way. As a rule, we have one tart a
year ; the birds have the rest. This year I even think they
are trying pure green ones. It is the only season when I
do not enjoy robins. One comes to loathe their conquer-
ing shouts, their greedy flashings, their reluctant flight as
one shoos them away. With all one’s efforts they only flit
a tree or two off and are back again.

Catbirds are much shyer. They shoo beautifully. I
never expected to be intimate with a catbird ; never par-
ticularly cared for them ; their song can be bewitching, but
lapses so readily into mer-auls ; and I have always thought
:hem an unpleasant color — soot-gray, like a chimney-
swallow. One expects that color on a chimney-swallow,
whose brilliant, forked shape somehow redeems it ; but on
i chubby person inhabiting clean hedgerows it seems un-
necessary. ... I had a chimney-swallow in my hands
yesterday, by the way; poor darling, he came down the
big chimney into the living-room and was banging him-
self frightfully on windows. I picked him up from the
window-seat, where he was lying, panting hard, and with
one eye closed and swollen, — the eye on top, so he did n’t
see me, — and jumped dreadfully when I took him in my

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hands. I opened them at the door — whoof! he was gone.
Over Omega in one flash !

For the last week a catbird has been spending her time
in the wild grape-vine beside our living-room window-
seat. It is a quiet comer, composed chiefly of orchards,
sunsets, solitude, and grape-vine ; and one noon there was
the flicky thing right outside, hopping about and chirping
to herself. Then she flitted to the upper window-sash
and clung there, staring in with all her might ! She even
gave three pecks on the glass ; but the sash was too slight
for a good hold, and she dropped to the sill. There she
strutted complacently along, pecking the glass and cock-
ing her head as though beholding marvels.

I stood transfixed. She was staring right at me. Pres-
ently she flicked back into the vine again, wormed her way
into its thickest part, and seemed, from her bent head, to
be arranging something. ... A catbird nest — right by
my window? . . . Yes, she had a straw in her mouth.
The unspeakable dear! ... If Boo came round that cor-
ner ! But he is busy in fields and barns. . . . The catbird
fussed and fussed, in the tangled vine — a sort of cradle, of
crossed brown grape-stems. Twenty times she laid her
straw down, and took it up again ; finally, staring absently
about, she dropped it. Apparently she didn’t care for
that particular straw. She flicked and flirted around a bit
more — I could see the swelling of her throat in sotto voce
conversations ; then suddenly sat back and tugged hard at
a last year’s grape-tendril — a curly one, dried and brown.
After a prolonged tussle, she gave it up.

“Sorry, bird,” I murmured. “I’ve tried to pick those
grape-hitchers; and they’re tough!”

Later, she flew into her vine just as I was sitting down

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at my table not two feet from the glass ! This was dread-
ful. It was my writing-corner ; but I simply wouldn’t
scare that bird. I sat very still, wondering how it was to
be done. Move the desk, some time when she wasn’t
there ? . . . But there she was; and I strained my neck to
watch her. Near to, her color was really pretty; a clear,
clean gray — much lighter than it looks in the bushes — her
black cap the neatest shape, and under her “tail-coverts”
(as the bird book calls them !) an inch or more of brilliant,
and fashionable, color — henna. (The bird book calls it
“chestnut”; but it calls everything that. The head of a
chippie! which is red. A lovely dark red. I think I
know ! Did n’t our Mrs. Chip eat round our table all last
summer?) . . . My catbird flashed her tail a great deal,
showing off the color nicely. Her eye, prominent and
black, was set in the side of her flat-topped head rather
like a duckling’s ; in fact, she slightly resembled, in profile,
a duck — except for her pointed bill. (A duck has an
Ethiopian bill! A thick-lipped bird.) She kept talking
to herself, but mostly hopping about and fiddling with
her straws. The room was quiet ; I could hear her little
notes now: rather like a tiny chicken’s peepings, when it
is very happy and busy. . . . Her eyes were so bright!
I have rarely seen a more jubilant-looking bird — every
motion jaunty and conclusive.

But she was a dilettante at nest-building, seeming quite
divided between that and song and staring at me. So far
her nest consisted of about six straws, lopping about on
the vine.

“I ’ll look her up in the book,” I thought, “and see if
six straws are all they use.”

For she did n’t seem at all concerned with bringing any

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more. No mate appeared to help. Every moment or two
she would pick up a straw and arrange it with fondest
care ; then hop brightly off and forget about it ! Several
times she had an enthusiastic idea about grape-hitchers
again — they were irresistible material ; but after a spell of
hearty tugging would give up, and begin talking to herself.
I loved to see that gray throat rippling. Sometimes, as if
a great thought had come to her, she flew swiftly off — but
was back as swiftly, with an empty, and slightly opened,
beak, giving her a breathless expression.

After half an hour of this I turned, with careful slow-
ness, to my typewriter. She cocked her head a little. I
did a little thump on the keys ; bless her, her throat was
still going — she was singing to herself ! I did a number
of thumps. She sang on. So, with much relief, I went to
work, glancing often over my shoulder at the happy per-
son in the vine. She absolutely did n’t care about me ! I
changed pages ; I rang bells ; I squirmed round to stare at
her; her little occupations went right on. Occasionally
she would fly up to the shed roof and let loose a flood of
song — and with never a squall to spoil it. Her life must
have been all sunshine just then. Somewhere out in the
trees was another catbird, whose song would chime in
with hers. . . .

That afternoon I was at the piano trying some new
songs — a charming one about going out on an April morn-
ing, all a-lone, for your heart was high. ... So was the
note! I found myself shrieking, and stopped, with a
guilty swing toward the window. My bird! But— out-
side on a bush she sat, undaunted; and as I stopped she
began:

“Biff! Fiddley-widdley. You-don’t-say-so ! High -

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THE LONE WINTER

jinks!! Ge-ra-nium? . . . Biff! Meechy-meechy. What-
what?” and so on. Laughing, I sat down on the stool
again. If my “heart” had been that “high” and she not
notice it, I would go on; I would be (piano) a child of
the shining meadow, and a (crescendo) — Sister of — the —
Sky ! I was. She did n’t mind. I repeated it. She sang
the louder. . . . Evidently, a bird with charming, “injy-
rubber” nerves. The kind all birds should have. . . ,

For several days this intimacy continued. I managed
to slide into my chair without disturbing her; but I
thought she seemed more absent in her ways, less con-
cerned with straws, more taken up with tapping on the
window, or staring through it with fixed, bright eyes. Her
little babble was constantly in my ear ; but I was troubled
about her growing aimlessness. There seemed fewer
straws than ever; if she touched one, she invariably
dropped it. Was her intention weakening ? or did I really
trouble her by my presence ? I had grown so used to her
I almost forgot she was there ; and, one evil day, hearing
sounds from the bam, made an unpremeditated rush from
my chair.

“Mi-auw!” came from the grape-vine. The call of
woe! I had frightened her, beshrew me! And a gray
form flitted off across the orchard. . . . “Mi-auw!”
dimly, from a distant tree. My heart sank. She had
nerves after all.

I never saw her again.

I miss her frightfully. Catbirds are everywhere now,
shouting from the trees, and I suppose she is one of the
shouters; but I wish she would come back, and cling to
the window-sash, and help me write.

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May 26 .

Returning from a Saturday drive to town, with a cart
full of petunias and pansies, I turned a very hot Dolly
into the paddock and watched her ecstatic rollings. I do
love to see a horse making itself comfortable! Dolly is
very thorough; back and forth on the cool turf she wal-
lowed, flopping her tail, scrubbing her ears and neck,
groaning delightedly. Then she came up with a sigh of
pure pleasure, staring at me, her feet drawn in close to
her body, all four shiny shoes showing. A simple-hearted
pose ; but dear Dolly was very happy. Leisurely putting
out one fore leg, she rubbed her nose thoughtfully upon it,
then got up — with a great flummux. A shake, three
sneezes, and, with a little frisk, as much as to say, “How
much better I feel !” she turned away.

A movement in the lane caught my eye: old Superb,
rising from a nap. “You look hollow, S’perbie,” I
thought, scrutinizing her. “What’s the matter?” Su-
perb’s chestnut has faded; she looks a sort of yellow
against the fresh green; and beside her, as she fed, lay
another yellow spot ! The spot moved ; then a little head
lifted itself. “The colt !” I cried, and joyfully climbed the
fence, my heart bounding. Superb raised a haggard face,
but lowered it to mull proudly over her precious baby,
who just then heaved up, quakily, upon its feet.

“Such a tall child, Superb!” I congratulated; “such
long legs !”

It had four white stockings adorning the long legs ; a
nice short back ; a short, curly, silky black mane (with a
dab of white at the withers, to be like Mother) ; a curly

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THE LONE WINTER

bob of a tail, set high like a hobby-horse’s — but oh, dear !
what a funny nose! Superb’s baby was undershot — as
undershot as an English bull, only, instead of a row of
teeth, a tier of innocent gum protruded, red as red flannel.
Above that the nostrils receded ; a retrousse nose, indeed ;
Would it always be that way ? Never before had we had
an undershot baby. . . . Otherwise, it was a darling, fat
and round, and only a little wabbly on its legs, though not
more than an hour or two old. It burrowed for a drink ;
then stood on three legs and scratched an ear with the
fourth! An able baby. A human, at that age, doesn’t
know it ’s got an ear to scratch. I always thought infant
guinea-pigs wonderful because they washed their faces as
soon as they were born ; but scratching your ear must be
harder.

Then I inspected the mother. “You must go out in the
mowing, Superb,” I decided. So I steered them both
through the gate, Superb very nervous, whinnering, and
looking back every instant for the baby — fat, swaggering
thing that he was ! But she fell hungrily on the long grass
and clover just outside, tearing at leaves, blossoms, plan-
tains, kale, anything, so long as it was fresh and green. I
watched her with indignant compassion. Fancy your
pasture beginning to dry up in May ! But it is. . . . Even
the baby bent his short neck and sniffed at a tall spear; but
his legs are so long he ’ll have to graze off banks for some
time — or keep to a milk diet.

He had been born in the barn-yard. Our own mothers
always go to the woods, but Superb, being a comparative
stranger, had made her nest near by. Just a smooth bit
of ground behind the salt-rocks, but well hidden by the
processional weeds, which grew about in stately clumps,

[36o]

THE LONE WINTER

needlessly splendid! We should raise roses and cucum-
bers in that yard. . . . But the ranks of weeds, with their
spiky bud-clusters atop (which seem to mean exciting
blossoms, but just fizzle away in no color at all, though to
the great and yearly gratification of the bees), made high
green walls for a retiring-room. Missis, she knew, would
be sure to come through soon — and then everything would
be attended to. The child would be seen, admired. . . .

Purry took me for such a jolly little drive to-night.
Purry is an old, old, drivin’-hoss, having been in the cart
as much as four times ! At first she was frightened and
mutinous and jerked me all over the place, but is growing
correspondingly good. She held back learnedly down the
pitches; stood on three legs (as a driving-horse should)
before the store; and, though she did shy violently upon
the putting-green in front of the Inn, it was only because
an unexpected boat came nosing out in the curve of the
brook near by, and Purry had never seen a boat. The
Inn proprietor stared at us. A wheel-track on his precious
green! . . .

It was twilight when we turned our comer, with gold
over the black woods, the lush grass in the meadow very
golden-green, and lit up with fireflies. It being a damp
evening with a strong wind blowing, the wise little things
did not try to fly, but crept up and down the grass-stems,
and in the dusk the meadow was illuminated as if by
buried incandescents. The rich, glowing golden-green,
with myriads of twinkling lights moving in it, was rarely
beautiful. . . . Oh — and the fresh wind blowing, the roar
of the woods, near and far — the wild sway of great

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branches overhead ! But the meadow of fireflies enchained
one most; I did want Furry to stand and look at it a
moment; but her little hoofs were playing a desperate
Home-Sweet-Home on the road, and so I let her go. She
dashed! taking me on one wheel round the bend, but I
had to slow her down for the hills. She took me com-
petently up, while I watched those slender white ankles,
marveling at their strength. Their motions were less
convulsive than big Dolly’s. . . .

At the shed Purry dropped her nose and assured me
she was an exhausted pony, but held it up gaily to trot
round to the yard, then went hoo-hooing out the lane
after her vanished companions. • . . Distant answering
whinners fell from the high knoll ; there were quick little
hoof-beats (those hoof-beats I so love to hear) on the
wind, the crack of flying stones, a fainter pattering—
then silence. Night under the stars ! and only the fireflies
moving in the paddock swamp, whose grasses shone green-
gold on the dark. . . . More faint whinners. One could
fancy them all together far up under the sky, with the
scent of dewy pasture, the breath of mountains to breathe,
partridges to wake them in the morning, and every day
to see a sunrise.

* * *

June i.

June! Sunshine, glorious skies, drought, and daisies.
Lavender daisies in the long orchard grass, blooming in
sunny patches, or in the patterns of orchard-shadow —
soft of edge and drawable. In the shadow the daisies
look very blue-lavender— lovely with the warm tints of
the grasses; more pinkish in the sunshine. On sunny

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bits of the terrace cinnamon roses are in bright pink bloom
— brighter than usual ; they 're prettier when a little more
lavendery ; but under the cedars they are still in tight buds,
waiting till my child comes home.

Education ! . . . This charm and that goes by : the May
moon, apple-blossoms, the best of the bird-song, tints of
the woodlands (which are now one disgusting green),
flowers in the woods, the newness of Superb's new baby ;
and still Babs does not come. . . . Never mind! It will
be over, this education, — at least the precise, dated sort, —
some day. . . . But this morning, when I came out to
the beauty of the fresh-opened roses, “Darn you!" I
exploded; and then kissed them in abject apology. But it
is cruel of everything to be so forward! Never before
have the leaves on Alpha and Omega been so large ; never
has ascertain dear little shrub with snowy double blossoms
like a Banksia rose, bloomed on the terrace wall; never
has our own asparagus salad departed from the menu —
without her being here with me to rejoice in them. . . .
Looking at that shrub yesterday, I had a worse sense of
desolation and lack than in midwinter when all was howl-
ing winds and snow. One had arranged to be lonely then !
was stiffened to bear it; but these soft things beat one
down. One is limp — weepy. ... Of the two I prefer
the “darn you" state of mind!

Cressy is most exasperating. I am still going for milk
— of going without it ! — when, according to the calendar,
she should have had that calf days ago. My egg man
assures me, by some abstruse mathematics of his own, that
it is because she is six years old that she is going ten days
over ; whereas a farmer who looked at her remarked that
“Seem* her age, she ought to be putty near on time!"

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(Take your choice!) In my heart I think that Cressy is
all right and that it is I who am off in my reckoning.
She is so assured, so calm. Daily her benevolence in-
creases. She is shiny bronze-color and cream-white, satin-
smooth and very beautiful. Her immense bag, with large
veins showing on it, reminds one of champion milkers,
with their tremendous udders, and fluffed tassels on their
venerated tails. If my Cressy’s silver tail-end were
washed and frilled and stuck out like that (doubtless
done up in uncomfortable curlers overnight!) it would
be quite as beautiful, but her expression would not be as
serene. No cow enjoys having her tail meddled with. If
I even touch Cressy 5 s, she immediately arranges it in the
neatest coil on her spine, out of the way. “Mine, if you
please !” says she.

Never before has Cressy had such an outdoor vacation,
with all obligations thrown to the winds; she must feel
like Queen Victoria, who said (with a pathos known only
to queens) that the month when her babies were born was
the only rest she knew. Victoria had nine. This will be
Cressy s third. Her other two came in the winter, when
“drying off” meant merely the daily privilege of being
out in the cold barn-yard longer than usual, and of having
her grain ration cut down. But this spring she has had a
glorious range, and could stare at sunsets all she chose.
Pico and Killington could be had for the asking; in the
nick of time, thistles and raspberry-bushes came into
tender or acid leaf. (Cressy does not like sweetbrier, I
am glad to say.) . . . Then she could roam the woods,
drink of their rushing surface brooks (flavored slightly
with, hemlock), or meander in leisurely cow-fashion far-
ther down, to the spring behind the poplar cliff. There

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THE LONE WINTER

she could taste, hawthorn-blossoms and sprays of black-
berry, both of which confine themselves to that side of the
pasture, or amuse herself with picking out a secluded
nursery in the undergrowth.

For I suppose that even my confiding Cressy will hide
her calf. Everybody says they all do. How they must
hate the exposure of a barn ! I am thankful Cressy for
once can choose her own place. . . . One will see what
the poor thing really wants.

Bally Beg is being trained to harness. Funny, to be
driving something about as big as a sixpence ! I can fairly
wade in Bally. He was mild at first, too busy with champ-
ing the unbearable bit to object to anything else ; but later
he came to and had nervous prostration all round the
wood-pile and past the comer of the shed. He shied at
the delphiniums, which stuck out bright-blue spears at
him; he whirled when a chipmunk raced past us on the
wall; his black chin was curbed on his chest, and fire
resided in his eye. I always thought there would be life
in Bally. He took all one’s wits for a few minutes; when
I tried to have him rest, he stamped one little rebellious
foot and gnashed furiously at the bit !

To-day he goes sedately. He even consented to step
upon the terrace and confront a fearful dragon in the'
shape of a reclining chair. Lucile, giggling, and her feet
nearly dragging, has ridden him out the lane and back;
but when I take up his reins I still feel as if I were driv-
ing Boo-boo !

* * *

June 2,

Everything is getting beautifully ready for my child.
A man on a step-ladder labored with ceilings; then a

[3651

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valiant papering-woman from the village came up, and I
brushed paste on wall-paper while she measured and
smoothed. The job looks professional, too! Farmers’
wives always do their own papering.* This one is a widow,
a farm-graduate, but now the village dressmaker, nurse,
and paperer — a rosy-cheeked, benevolent philosopher be-
sides, and — not a gossip. This seems almost a “contra-
diction in terms” ; but it is true, and it is in a state of ever-
renewed wonder that I deposit her at her door in the
evening.

The pleasant tan-colored paper being freshly on, I made
new blue and white Japanese curtains to wave against the
greenery outside. On Decoration day I painted the floor.
A can of tan paint was the foundation, but for some time
I sat on the back step and had a lovely time with a tube
of American cobalt — so blue a blue that one was desper-
ately afraid of stirring in too much. I wanted a cool
gray, with the slightest tint of green, and American cobalt
did it; so I stirred paint, and slopped paint, till every oily
thread of blue was absorbed, then tried a triumphant dab
on the pump— and fell to. The broad old maple boards,
with their generous, puttied cracks, were interesting to
follow; what primeval timber they were hewed from! and
how simple it was to cover, with a few shining strokes,
the sins of the past years! In knickerbockers and one’s
oldest blouse, one covered with zeal.

In the midst of it, when about four great boards had
been achieved, came the whir of a car in our woods. I
painted stolidly on. This was a holiday, without my child
— the most dismal of occasions ; one’s friends ought to
know that one makes a point of working obliterating on
such a day. . . .

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A rap at the door. Paint-brush belligerently in hand, I
presented myself — and behold a literary gentleman, gar-
nished with a bouquet of azaleas, come to call. Blessed
be paint-brushes ! The big car soon purred down the hill,
and I contentedly set to. Paint was literariness enough
for me ; for as the heavy brush slopped and slip-slopped
in my hand, making thick, succulent noises, like a hungry
puppy, ideas and phrases coursed perversely through my
brain. . . . But I painted myself out with amazing in-
telligence, toward the kitchen door, whose sill, after all,
I was glad to reach. Arm ached ferociously; brow
dripped. Sopping up from the bottom of the pail a last
driblet of gray-green, I drew it along a weavery edge, and
arose gasping.

The azaleas, from a copper pot, confronted my spat-
tered self reproachfully. I ran for a clean blouse. As I
pulled it on, a feeling of insult grew in one's irrational
mind. . . . Nice way to spend a holiday! . . . Saddling
Polly, Gli and I went for a redeeming gallop.

Next morning paint was dry ; dry enough for tiptoeing !
so I hung Japanese curtains, set mahogany sparsely about,
put roses in a gray stone jug, adjusted the notes of blue
on sill and wall ; and it was done. In the front windows,
curtains always behave; but as soon as I had hung them
at the side window, near which the wood-stove stands, a
fresh east breeze sprang up and the right-hand drapery
flew straight for the top of its well-blackened neighbor.
I never knew this to fail.

My heart leaps up when I behold —

The curtains on the stove!

I misquoted savagely, coming in from the kitchen with
more roses ; for there they were, all fresh and clean, wip-

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ing their hems affectionately round the sooty pipe. . . .
I looped them irately back. They shall stay clean for my
child!

* * *

June s.

Things have been happening. Two days ago I missed
Cressy. She had n’t slept in the shed ; she had n’t come
down for a drink — or a word with me — I don’t know
which is more essential to her happiness! So, feeling
very new at these matters, I asked the cheerful boy to
help me look her up. Lucile came with him. Each of us
had a rope. Great, according to the cheerful boy, is the
strategy of cows on these occasions. “Me ’n’ my brother
followed one of ours once, an’ she made as straight a line
as you ever see — right up acrost the pasture to th’ woods.
We took after her, but she kep’ right on. She headed
daown through a clear bit in th’ woods, but by a clump o’
bushes she kinda turned her head and give a look at it.
She kep’ right on a-goin’, but my brother says, ‘I bet
you that calf is in them bushes.’ An’ ’t was. Hid up,
right in the thick of ’em.”

“Well, could you catch her?” I asked interestedly.

"Sure!” he returned. “Druv ’em both t’ th’ yard.”
Such paucity of detail ! One has absolutely to dig, to get
a story out of any of these boys. They take it for granted
that details are as dully familiar to you as to them,
whereas I am thrilled over details! I wanted to know
just how that cow acted, how far she “kep’ on goin’ ” in
the woods, whether she was ugly when she saw they had
her calf, how the calf behaved, etc. — that is how one
conducts extension-courses for oneself in farm matters!

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THE LONE WINTER

We reached the woods. The cheerful boy was to take
the cliff trail and the woods, Lucile the high knoll, and
I the back pasture, a bushy expanse, dotted with wooded
islands. Any one who found anything was to yell. The
cheerful boy was convinced he ’d find her in the woods ;
I felt she would be in underbrush whence I had seen her
horns protruding some days before! . . .

At noon a weary three straggled out of the edges of
the woods. Not a sign of a cow had any of us seen ! And
we had simply scraped that pasture. . . .

“I seen her tracks,” declared the cheerful boy, scratch*
ing a puzzled head. “Right daown here in this woods.
But I did n’t see her . . and then my jaw fell.

“Look!” I gasped. There, out of some hemlocks, — or
was I seeing a ghost? — dragged a disheveled form.
Cressy? . . .

“That’s her,” murmured the boy, as one dazed. I
leaped off Polly. . . . Yes — Cressy. Walking slowly,
draggingly. Thin, hollow-sided, wretched-looking — and
no calf!

“What ?” I gasped again. “Where’s the calf?

Has n’t she had a calf ?”

“Yep!” replied the cheerful boy, recovering. “She’s
had it, all right. She ’s goin’ daown fer a drink. Gosh,
what a bag !”

“But — but we must find the calf l” I cried.

The boy grinned. “Hid up !” he said. “You milk her,
then you keep her in couple hours, and when you let her
aout she ’ll go straight to it. We could n’t never find it
— in them woods !”

“Well,” I cried, running to my horse, “let ’s hurry, then.
She may ”

[369]

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“No, she won’t !” said my preceptor calmly. “She don’t
look as if she ’d had a drink fer two days. She ’s goin’
t’ the yard !”

Sure enough. Cressy was taking her way weakly, but
with purpose, down the green slopes. We followed.
“Could you,” I said, apologetically — “I know it’s your
dinner-time, but could you — milk her for me? Her bag
looks so frightful — and I ’m afraid she will kick ”

“Yes, I ’ll milk her for you,” he said indulgently. . . .
Cressy stayed a long while at the trough. Her eye was
red-rimmed, anxious, feverish-looking; she paid no more
attention to me than if I had been a barn-yard rock. . . .

“Did she kick much?” I asked, when the boy had fin-
ished milking. “And is the bag very bad ?”

“Not too much !” he replied good-naturedly. “The bag
ain’t too bad.”

So definite!

At two o’clock I stole softly into the cow barn. An
angry head was turned to me. “Br — aww !” muttered
Cressy ferociously. The chain fell ; she simply bolted out
of the narrow door. She drank again, then looked around
her. Hurry seemed to leave her. She wandered out the
lane; ate a few bites. But I darted around to the stable
for Polly. The cheerful boy had impressed on me:
“Keep an eye on her! Don’t let her think you’re fol-
lowin’ her; but don’t let her git away from ye. She’ll
go like a streak when she does go.”

Polly’s eye, as I saddled her, was wild. She knew
something was in the wind, and leaped the bam sill with
me. ... I trotted her quietly up the turfy edge of the
lane. Ah, there was Cressy — still loitering. By the
mother-bank now. Working along! “She isn’t going

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THE LONE WINTER

very 'straight to the woods/ ” I thought, dismounting and
leading Polly across the pasture to a hillock behind which
we could be concealed, yet see almost to the top of the
knoll. . . .

The mountains were very blue; it was a perfect June
day, with great white clouds in piled masses, flinging
shadows on hills and valleys. Just below us was
a timbered hillside, sloping precipitously down to a valley ;
infinite confusion of wooded hills beyond, fading into
blue ; near us a foreground of bright, dipping pasture, all
tints of spring. . . . Goodness, where was Cressy? I
jumped up, trying to see around the maple-grove. . . .
Clean gone! Darn! I climbed hastily into the saddle.
Polly tore rashly down the hillock, and up the mother-
bank, when — above the profile of a little knoll, a tail
swashed. Just the tassel of a cow-tail — but enough. She
was grazing still. . . .

How very funny! They said she would be in such a
hurry, and here we ’d been waiting more than an hour
already. I hoped she would hurry. It would get dark
early, in the woods. ... I felt a little grieved at this ex-
cessive carefulness on Cressy’s part. Didn’t she know
I wouldn’t hurt her precious baby? Pony-mothers are
so different. Superb was delighted to have me see her
child. They look you up to show you what ’s happened !
And here was Cressy, thinking, dodging. . . .

Holding Polly’s reins, I sat down again, and ate wild
strawberries. The fragrance of them, in the hot sun!
and the prettiness! I gave a cluster to Polly. . . . But
we were nearer the woods; I mustn’t let Cressy get a
start on us. Mounting, I peered over the little knoll;
I could just see a cow-back proceeding, with great leisure

[ 37*3

THE LONE WINTER

and casualness, up and down the dimpling hollows — cir-
cling blackberry-bushes, but slowly, yes, purposefully —
going. We followed.

Soon she strolled by the corner of the notch, but still
grazing exasperatingly. She ’d lift her head ; look about ;
take a few swift steps; then down would go her head
again. One couldn’t blame the poor hollow-sided thing.
. . . But the sun was sinking. It was right over the
woods now — the tall black woods across the sharp rise.
Cressy suddenly scrambled up that rise ; by Jove, it looked
as if she were off ! With amazing swiftness those brown
and white legs ambled over the top ; I dug my heel into
Polly, and we bolted toward the slope, my eye glued
to that sunset cow. I did n’t care if she did see us — and
then I hauled desperately on the bit, and ducked down
beside Polly’s mane. Oh, for a helmet of invisibility!
Cressy had suddenly turned her head; two great illumi-
nated cow-ears stared down at us; black against the
sunset, with a halo of brightness about each of them
— and what an accusing expression! Polly backed and
fidgeted, but I lay glued to her neck. . . . When she had
finally backed me into a sumac, stumbled into a hollow
of blue violets, and grazed her leg on a stray pile of wood,
I thought it time to look up. No cow! We made the
rise. There was Cressy, about fifty feet away . . .
turning a head and inspecting us . . . grazing again. . . .
Tying Polly in the edge of the woods, I stole behind
brush and saplings, and waited. Cressy grazed slowly by
me. She approached the mouth of a wood-road. For a
long time I watched her, also watched the fatal march
of shadows sliding, sliding down the slopes; the re-
treat of sunlight before them. Cressy’s tail was being

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gradually absorbed in wood-shadows, and so I crept along,
darting across a bit of openness, gaining another thick
clump, going on hands and knees over a bare spot — for
she was going! Down the wood-road. Looking back
over her shoulder every other step. In a little dip, she
paused and stared ; swashed her tail ; then suddenly turned
back! moving up the wood-road toward me. Despair!
She ’d winded me — or something. . . . Now she ’d never
go ! Would she see me as she passed ? She gazed suspi-
ciously to right and left — but walked by. . . . And began
to graze! Drat! Darn! I stole back into my green
brush again. This time I ’d wait till she ’d really gone —
and trust to luck to follow her. . . . Stumbling into a
little hollow behind a bunch of brush, I concluded to stay
in it. A grand hiding-place ! • I lay flat, and peered out
through leaves. She wasn’t far away. Her footsteps
made my hollow tremble.

All at once she stared in my direction — and came tramp-
ing over! The hollow shook — a great head, two white
horns, shoved in through the leaves; and a pair of red
eyes stared down into mine. Discovered! Cressy’s ex-
pression was that of an angry parent. I felt somehow
extremely guilty, and ducked my head into the leaves,
while she stood there, breathing indignantly, over me.
. . . Brown hat, brown khaki — wouldn’t she perhaps
think I was just leaves? I lay very still. Animal judg-
ment was going on above. A snort — a loud-breathed
“ Whoo !” and the hollow shook again. She moved away.

After a little, I ventured to sit up. That had been a
horrid moment! My forehead was wet. Cressy was
working down toward Polly, eating thistles in a hollow.
She approached, blew a questioning breath . . . then

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THE LONE WINTER

actually went up and examined that horse! I could see
her snuffing at the saddle. She went to the other side.
I saw a cow-nose protrude an instant above Polly’s
withers. “Sassy thing!” I muttered. “Going to find out,
are n’t you?” But then — if she was so sure I was around
Polly, she couldn’t have recognized me in that hollow!
Hooray! She was slinking toward the woods; she was
oozing into them ; she was gone !

On tiptoe, but taking tremendous strides, I pursued
her. Now or never! Into the woods — how the beastly
leaves crackled! But wild joy was surging in me. Also
a worry. . . . Where, in that precipitous twilight, was
she? No time for tiptoeing; I went plunging along in
leaps. ... A flick of whiteness in the gloom — thank
goodness ! it was she. But how swiftly she disappeared ;
how dark these woods were. And how thick ! Not leafy
brush, but small defunct saplings crowded together, brit-
tle yet delaying. I tore my way through them. . . . Sav-
agely downhill ; darker and darker. I could hear a vague
crashing ahead ; and, good heavens, I might have been a
battalion of infantry, for the racket I was making. Over
a low cliff — more dead saplings; the leaves now damp
and heavy underfoot — I didn’t know this part of the
woods at all. And I had lost Cressy. Black trees roofed
lower and lower overhead. ... I surged desperately
along. Were those her tracks ? I could just see k darker
ruffling in the leaf -bed. Looking down at them, I almost
ran upon her.

She was standing, quietly, in a sort of grave; her fore-
legs lower than her hind ones. It was a place she had
dug — in black leaf-loam. Transparent, white, bulb-
looking things were scattered on the smooth black loam.

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THE LONE WINTER

Cressy apparently had been chewing them. They were
rather like crocus-bulbs.

“Cressy darling !” I said rather tremblingly — I had hur-
ried so. “Where’s your calf, Cressy?” She turned her
head — such a different look. Mild, almost imploring.
“Dear old girl !” I said, touched. “Is that medicine you ’re
eating? . . . But show me the calf, Cressy! I know it
is n’t here in this damp place. Not a bit a good place,
Cressy. Come, show me!” And ,1 took her head and
turned her gently round. She was headed at an impene-
trable thicket. “Go on, old dear !” I urged, wearily, pat-
ting her; “go on! and show me.” (“This is lunacy,” I
said, despairingly, to myself, as Cressy stood before me,
peering doubtfully into the wood-shadows. “You ’ve run
right upon her, and now she ’ll go off in the darkness the
wrong way, and you ’ll lose her, and she must be milked
to-night or that bag will blow up, and ”)

“M-mm,” said Cressy softly. She took a step for-
ward. Murmuring again, she slowly circled a stump
and stopped, staring straight in front of her. Again came
the tender little sound. Bewildered, I stared, too, but
saw nothing. Cressy turned her head slightly to me, then
looked again. Suddenly I caught my breath ; a rapturous
smile crept over my face. There, in a leafy basin just
above us, a tiny, tan-colored creature was getting weakly
on its legs, trembling, stretching its little head toward its
mother. It tottered a step or two; Cressy rushed for-
ward. “Oo-mmmm!” and she nuzzled all over the lit-
tle thing. Her neck had such a proud arch to it. . . .
What a beautiful calf ! Smooth and very big, for a new
one, with delicate head and neck — fawn-like, the whole
creature, down to the dainty, deer-colored hoofs. ... A

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THE LONE WINTER

real woodland baby. . . . And it was a heifer ! O frab-
jous day ! . . . How it did push ! How strong those hind
legs were getting, right before one's eyes! Calves are
such nice, husky, downright things. . . . This was a nice
place, after all ; a dry little terrace for the baby, a thick
roof overhead, and a dusky spot where nobody, even
ponies, ever came. But now to get her out of it; away
from the leafiness and the wood-fragrance. Too bad!

I slipped on the halter and rope. “Come, Cressy.”
But she would not budge. The baby was behind her. I
pushed it in front, and Cressy at once dropped a fond
nose on its withers. It gave a little hop. “Good for
you!” I cried, laughing. “Sense of humor already, hey?”
Then Cressy walked a few steps to catch up with her
ambitious offspring. This was lovely ! For some distance
we proceeded thus, in little jerks. If the baby was ahead,
Cressy would move; not otherwise. When we reached
some thick hemlocks, dragging became difficult; so the
brilliant thought occurred to me, why not lead the calf?
I made a rope-halter for the tiny head, and pulled. Noth-
ing seemed to come ; I looked round, and there was that
infinitesimal creature digging its toes into the leaf-loam,
and refusing to budge ! A few hours old, and I could n’t
pull it!' Cressy was muttering angrily. I took off the
rope, and went along the old way.

I very much wanted to turn uphill toward the notch;
but it was bad enough getting them along on the level.
Trees were so in the way. But that baby was a
jewel. Once when it grew tired and lagged behind, and
I was absolutely exhausted trying to lug Cressy, — a pic-
ture of objection, with feet far apart, — I cried faintly,
"Come bossy! . . ♦ C bossy, c’ bossy?” with a note of

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THE LONE WINTER

helpless interrogation at the end ; and the little thing actu-
ally cocked her head at me, lifted her ears, and came
staggering amiably along. I nearly wept with joy. “Bless
you, baby. . . . C bossy!” And it splurged awkwardly
forward again, while every time I hauled Cressy up that
much. The poor calf shambled as if one hind leg would
be bowed outward forever, but wabbled gamely forward
when I called. Was it inherited instinct, or mere preco-
cious brains, this response to an immemorial call?

For ages and ages, it seemed, we labored through
those woods; then at last down the darkening pasture
slopes — “C bossy, c’ bossy, c’ bossy !” My throat ached ;
I ached all over ; but, by actual dark, Cressy and her calf
were in the cow barn, and I was worriedly massaging
that frightful bag. The baby helped, even then. She got
hungry, and bunted terrifically. I admired the flat, turtle-
like head undoubtedly bestowed on calves for this very
purpose. Every bump softened the adamantine mass.
“Careful!” I breathed, watching these heartless whacks,
for Cressy would wince, and mutter, and step up and
down with pain; yet she let her child bang as it would.
If I had done that, I ’d have been in the ceiling. As it
was, I had to use a bright-yellow cow-balm and be as
delicate as possible.

After a long time, the bag was soft enough for milking.
With one hand I held her hock down; with the other I
milked. Kick! Wop! and one leaned back out of range
a moment. Wop! and a dip of angry horns that can’t
quite reach you. . . . Grip that hock as hard as you can.
Milk again. Hooshl and you are nearly off your stool;
take a breath, and go to it again. . . .

Outside the door Goliath and Boo-boo breathlessly

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THE LONE WINTER

waited, sitting side by side. Every minute Boo would get
up and wind lovingly round the collie's fore legs; then
seat himself patiently again. (I hadn’t let even the
wisest of all cats in, for fear of irritating poor nervous
Cressy worse.) So I managed to catch a little hot milk
for him in a lard-pail; and great was the glory of the
expedition into the house. Such purring, while the glori-
ous fluid was being poured out!

All three of us, and the lantern, went to redeem Polly.
A shining spot on the dark woods — her star, the dear!
And she was as nearly enthusiastic to see me as my cool
Polly ever permits herself to be. Boo-boo rode home on
the saddle-bow, purring violently; and on the way down
we included Dolly, and put her to bed with a tremendous
feed of oats. . . . For days I have been shining her,
prinking up the cart ; to-morrow I am going to the train !

To-morrow. . . . To-morrow! I can’t believe it.
School is over, roses are in bloom, Cressy has had her
calf — and I ’m going to the station. And then we ’ll
never, never do this again. I don’t know what it ’s been,
this winter; but I know we’ll never do it again. . . .
There’s Cressy and her baby all happy in the bam; I
went out for a last look, and the darling innocent angel
was curled down on a hay bed I made for her, right
close by Mother, and looking up at me adoringly, as if
I were a sort of sub-mother too. ... I am. Cressy was
lying down, with a lovely cud; I was very still, not to
disturb them. Peace and happiness. . . . And I don’t
believe Cressy was lamenting the wild woods a bit.

Yet I thought of that place where she had led me, the
nest she had chosen with love; the scent of leaves and

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THE LONE WINTER

black leaf-loam, the low leaves overhead; Cressy’s white
crocus-medicine; the dank, sweet, forest air; and then I
saw her here, blissful because of that small, tan-colored
spot beside her.

To-morrow — to-morrow. . . .

[379]